They Think a Locked Door Prevents You

by Dacelin

Summary:

It only took a few hours and one spider for Renfield to know he wasn't free. That sooner or later Dracula would return for his wayward servant. And for a familiar to survive for long away from their master... he knew what it would do to him.

He'd been through all this before...

Chapter 1: Alone

Notes:

The Renfield trailer checked a lot of boxes for me. I knew I was going to enjoy the fics whether or not the movie was any good. I probably read a dozen fics before I actually watched the movie. And that was a good excuse to finally reread Stoker's Dracula. And I started imagining the backstory... And Renfield's future...

I understand that Renfield is based more on the 1931 movie than the book... but I haven't seen it. So I made Renfield's story work with the book as much as possible (and discarded whatever details I wasn't interested in exploring).

Shoutout to this_bright_eyed_soul's fic The Difficulties of Norwegian Real Estate because their line about familiars doing poorly without their masters nearby was deeply inspiring for where this story ended up going.

The title is from Renfield's song from Dracula the musical. Yes, I consumed a lot of media while writing this.

Renfield knew within hours of leaving the support group that his hard-earned freedom was an illusion which would be shattered far sooner than he could hope.

Or… maybe did hope.

The come-down high after tendering his resignation with chainsaw and meat grinder hadn’t hit until after the group meeting. Until after he’d seen his friends restored to life and assured them that there’d be no lingering effects to their bodies despite a day spent decomposing and their souls experiencing… well, he really hoped Mark would be okay. Bob hadn’t stopped grinning like a loon, which Rebecca had taken as a good sign but had given Renfield uneasy flashbacks to his asylum days.

But his friends were better, and some had been able to tell their problems to a real police officer who'd really listened and who’d promised to take their domestic abuse allegations seriously.

Rebecca was still riding high. Her sister was alive, her father was avenged, her corrupt boss was still lacking a head (they hadn’t brought everyone they could have back to life). She’d cheerfully slipped through the police line around Renfield’s apartment complex to fetch a bag of his clothes and self-help books before dropping him off at a hotel that wouldn’t ask questions about a man lacking in IDs and credit history.

And then she’d gone home. Gone home to sleep off several days of intensity and terror. Gone to breathe before stepping into the next phase of her life.

And Renfield… Renfield suddenly found himself alone.

He’d never… how long had it been since he was truly alone? Since there hadn’t been the voice and presence lurking in the back of his mind? Listening to his thoughts if it suited his master to intrude? Swamping him with emotions or commands whenever the count was struck with a desire or need?

Dr. Seward would have said someone who heard voices was insane.

Renfield wondered if he’d go insane without them.

Again.

The cold sweat had already begun when his eyes fell upon the spider.

A good-sized specimen working its way up the wall to spin its web just above the lamp where prey could easily be snared.

Renfield had crossed the room and scooped it up before he processed what he was doing. Horrified, he froze, the spider scrambling up his arm in an instinct to reach the highest point. He hastily caged it between his palms.

Gentle. Never squeeze. Try not to panic it. Just limit where it explored.

Put it down, he told himself.

Put it outside. Don’t think about it. Don’t wonder.

Never wonder. If you don’t wonder, you won’t know…

Or did he want to know?

So long as the spider roamed his arm, he could pretend. Pretend he had any confidence in what he and Rebecca had done.

Pretend he could live without Dracula without falling apart.

Again.

But if he ate it, and nothing happened… that would be proof.

Maybe it would be better that way. One last bug. Eat it. Prove the powers were gone. Prove he was fully human. Prove he was free.

And then he could get on without dreading.

Or hoping.

He ranged into the bathroom, the spider still trundling along his arm. A flick of a light and then he faced the bathroom mirror.

He rarely looked into mirrors. Dracula’s absence from them always flooded him with terror. And his own unchanging face.

The dread the sight brought that his master wasn’t real. That this life was an illusion.

That he was still bound in the padded room with Dr. Seward standing over him and asking about his delusions.

That there had never been a Dracula. No passage of years. No separation from his family.

Except a voluntary one. The voluntary separation of themselves from a mad and dangerous man.

A terror that he’d been the monster all along.

He crammed the spider into his mouth.

His eyes flared orange. Adrenaline, or its hellish counterpart, flooded his veins.

He seized the shower curtain rod and bent it in half… and then sheepishly tried to straighten it back into working order.

Apparently, he didn’t need his master around to create messes that he’d need to clean up before someone saw.

Master.

Master wasn’t dead. He was weakened and broken. Broken worse than Renfield had ever known.

At Renfield’s hands.

But it wouldn’t last forever. He’d heal eventually. He’d regain his power.

And he’d come looking for his wayward familiar.

Renfield slumped to the floor and buried his face in his arms as his heart flooded with despair.

And relief.

And he didn’t know which he was still feeling as he crawled into bed, still dressed and splattered in his master’s blood, and fell into an empty and lost sleep.

Chapter 2: Sanguine Temperament; Great Physical Strength; Morbidly Excitable

Before…

“Renfield, R. M.,” the doctor read in a dull voice off the admission papers in his hand.

From where he stood before the doctor’s desk, his skin freshly scrubbed, his hair docked to nothing (for lice, the attendants had said although Renfield suspected pure humiliation), and shivering in the thin clothes he’d been given to wear, Renfield stared back at his captor and tried to read anything into the disinterested tone.

There had been jail before this. Jail after he’d been taken from the public garden where he’d been… What had he been doing? It had seemed important at the time.

He’d not been in the jail for long. They’d declared him a lunatic somewhere between him being unable to answer any of their too rapidly spouted questions and biting a guard who’d struck him when he hadn’t moved fast enough.

He couldn’t remember why biting the guard had seemed like a good idea. Too large to swallow whole.

And that was where power came from.

Bugs! Or worms. That’s why he’d been in the garden.

Clawing through the frost for what hibernated below the surface…

“Mr. Renfield,” the doctor said in a prodding way that meant it wasn’t the first time he’d said the name. “Can you tell me what the initials stand for?”

Why wouldn’t they let him sit down? The room was whirling. More than the room. Maybe it was the entire world whirling out of sync beneath his bare feet.

The world hadn’t been steady for a long time.

Not since…

But the two men who stood at his back in their white uniforms with batons at their waists hadn’t allowed him to drop to the floor the first time he’d tried.

Little chance they’d allow it now. Not with their superior’s eyes upon them.

Dr. John Seward. God of the lunatic asylum. He’d put his name upon the door.

It didn’t make him a god.

Even if he did control the fate of souls.

“Mr. Renfield!” the doctor said sharply. “Tell me your name.”

“Renfield,” Renfield echoed… or maybe answered.

Why was the doctor asking? He obviously knew.

“No, your other names,” Dr. Seward said with more annoyance in his tone. “Tell me what the R stands for.”

An order. Renfield smiled.

Life was easier with orders.

“Robert,” he answered promptly. “Robert M…”

He shouldn’t have said that. Not the first part. Not the last part. He should have told them a false name at the jail.

Maybe he had. There had been a delay between his incarceration and anyone speaking his name. But they certainly knew things about him now.

Probably even his first name. Maybe this was a test.

“Thank you, Robert. I’m glad you remembered it.”

“Renfield,” he mumbled.

“What was that, Robert?”

“Renfield! You should call me Renfield!” His head came up as he spoke, his shoulders squaring with what was left of his dignity.

Dr. Seward’s eyebrows rose. His hand began busily scratching notes. “Arrogant, authoritative tendencies,” he mumbled as he wrote.

Renfield blinked and swayed unsteadily.

Was it wrong to want to be called by his preferred name?

Robert… that was what his parents and grandparents had called him. When they’d called him a disappointment.

What his wife’s parents had called him. When they’d said he wasn’t good enough to marry their daughter.

What his employers had called him. When they’d promoted others above him repeatedly, ordering ‘Robert’ back to the filing every time he worked up the courage to ask when he might be trusted with the more important solicitor work.

What his wife had called him when she’d scolded him for being a pushover, for failing to stand up for himself, for bringing home such a meager salary.

Master had called him Renfield. Master had entrusted him with responsibility. Master had sent him out on tasks in which other people spoke with respect the name of Mr. Renfield.

Renfield was strong. Robert was… someone left behind.

“Age,” Dr. Seward continued, his gaze returning to the intake papers. His brow furrowed. “59?”

Renfield gulped. “29,” he said quickly.

Did that make more sense? He’d lost track of time long ago. What year was it? How long had he been in Transylvania? And abroad? He wasn’t even certain how long he’d been back in England.

Just long. Too long.

With Master far away across the sea. His voice a whisper Renfield could no longer fathom.

Too long without commands…

“29?” The doctor looked between the paper and the patient. “What’s your birthdate?”

“…February…” Renfield managed distractedly.

When had he last heard Master’s voice? When had he last been sure of what he was meant to do? There had been orders when he’d been sent back to England. But somewhere amidst the pitching sea, and the London crowds, and the emptiness of his rooms, the orders had all gone away.

Find a house. Had that been it? Find a house and… Was this the house?

Or multiple houses. Multiple properties. Prepare the way for Master’s coming.

Had he done that?

Dr. Seward was still talking, and Renfield looked up helplessly when one of the men prodded him. “Hmm?” he managed.

Dr. Seward spoke again, but the voice came from a great distance.

Far across the sea. Like Master’s voice.

Master’s voice that he could no longer hear.

Did it matter what men said to him? When he’d heard the voice of the one who commanded his soul?

The attendant poked him once more, and he tried to straighten. “Couldn’t I sit down?” he begged the world at large.

“I think that’s enough for now.” Dr. Seward’s voice swam back into clarity. He’d risen and come closer, a tall and pale shape in Renfield’s shadowed vision. “Mr. Renfield. You’re going to be staying with us for some time. I hope you’ll be at peace here. Let me show you to your room.”

The words were friendly, but they were not options. Choices had been taken away. Renfield would sit if this man allowed. Walk where this man commanded. Stay where he was ordered.

Wrong, wrong, wrong!

His mind screamed with the falseness of it all.

He didn’t belong here. He shouldn’t follow this… this human.

Master was more than this doctor. More than all the people in this place. More than all the people of London.

Greater than all. And Renfield belonged at his side. At his feet.

Not adrift in the London fog. Not following a no-one man through the halls of a…

…what was this place?

“This is your room, Renfield. I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

The world had moved forward while he wasn’t watching. They were in a room. Just the two of them. The big men gone away.

White walls. White sheets upon the bed. A single stool.

So little else.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in. Relax, Renfield. You’re in good hands now.”

The rasping slide of a bolt. The sound of footsteps retreating.

And he was alone.

Alone in a room as empty as the silence in his head.

Notes:

As we continue through Renfield's experiences with the comforts of 19th century mental healthcare, please assume an ongoing warning for ableist language, dated terms and theories about mental illness, questionable healthcare practices, and some occasional casual racism. Because after rereading Dracula, I have to say, Dr. Seward? Kind of a dick.

Chapter 3: Pretending

Now...

He tried to make a life for himself in New Orleans.

He really did.

Real estate wasn’t a hard field to step into.

Maybe some people who found immortality thrust upon them became disconnected from the world, but Renfield had never had that luxury. He’d had to keep abreast of changing times and technologies because Dracula certainly hadn’t bothered adapting to anything since the second World War. And his master’s brief attention span for any location (coupled with his habit of dropping too many bodies to allow them to keep a low profile anywhere for long) meant that Renfield remained well versed in the ever-changing property laws, tariffs, taxes, and transport restrictions across the globe.

There’d been ample time for studying laws in his long life.

Although the most exhausting parts of his existence had always been the process of seeking out and moving them to a new home, nursing his master back to health after his latest brush with hunters, and then repeating the process, there had always been the long stretches in the middle in which Dracula was able to hunt on his own and not feeling bored enough to commit mass slaughter that left Renfield with some actual downtime.

In between cleaning their home, managing the stock portfolio, scouting for future hideaways across the globe, patrolling for hunters, disposing of bodies, and generally being at his master’s beck and call at every moment of the night, of course.

Still, not having to stalk and subdue prey gave him some daylight hours for leisure.

So he studied.

He’d been a solicitor once. A lawyer in today’s terms.

And he worked hard enough to still be capable of passing any bar exam if it had ever been necessary.

Granted, he’d always mostly focused on property law. Best ways to get land cheap and hang onto it even if the authorities came sniffing.

He’d gotten skilled over the years at convincing elderly homeowners to sell him what he needed.

Sometimes without resorting to a bottle of chloroform and a mysterious disappearance.

So, now he found himself easily adapted to a new life as a real estate agent.

It wasn’t hard to sway people towards a home they already desired. And he was very good at the paperwork, soon making himself an attractive realtor simply for his speed in handling documentation. And in spotting termite damage.

Beyond work… and learning to operate during daylight hours… well, there was the support group.

But… it wasn’t as it had been before.

The easy comradery he'd felt when they’d been helping him find himself and enthusiastically including him in spa treatments and shopping trips was strained. The group tried. They really did. But sometimes he saw the flicker of unease, of memory, in their eyes.

He’d gotten them all killed.

He’d given them first-hand awareness that the monsters were real, and that the afterlife was filled with unspeakable horrors.

You didn’t return to normal friendly relations after that.

Maybe it would have been different if he could have still made their problems go away. Certainly, Caitlyn’s warmth for him never faltered once she’d learned that he was the reason she was free of Mitch. But then, Caitlyn hadn’t been there that night. So maybe that made a difference.

Some of the others would have appreciated it if he could have dealt with their monsters quickly and quietly. But Rebecca was keeping a close eye on him.

And Renfield didn’t want to disappoint her.

But as for a relationship with her…

He certainly fantasized. And they spent many an evening on her sofa or his, watching movies and laughing at the nonsense of the world. They talked about work. About hobbies. About things they did together. About her (lovingly) infuriating sister and sometimes the stories of the places he’d been in his long life.

They were close. And also, they weren’t. He never tried to kiss her, and she never behaved as if he should. They fell asleep together on the sofa sometimes, but neither ever suggested relocating to a bed or more physical activities than snuggling.

He sometimes thought he wanted more. Or ought to want more. Sometimes he tried to imagine what it would be like to take her on a proper date. Hold her hand. Kiss her…

And the daydreams always left him with an uneasy shudder.

What held him back? The secrets he kept? The knowledge that he wasn’t free? The things in his past that they didn’t speak of?

The image of teeth latching onto his neck anytime a mouth came anywhere close to his face?

Probably, but ultimately he came to the unhappy realization that Rebecca owned him as effectively as Dracula had.

Rebecca knew his history. She had his DNA and fingerprints. A word from her would see him in jail facing charges of homicides stretching back decades. There might have been questions about how his handiwork could be found on bodies left for dead long before his youthful face indicated he’d been alive, but he doubted that would dissuade the authorities for long.

And once they had him locked away, how long before they realized that a life sentence for him would be long? How long before they began to question his unchanging face? His minimal need for sleep and odd dietary inclinations? His bursts of strength?

How long before the walls started closing in? Before his dreams and waking were nothing but visions of padded rooms and restraints and that piercing whistle which summoned the attendants to beat him into submission? Before he was screaming mindlessly for rescue, prepared to sell his soul once more just to escape bars and brutality and emptiness?

He’d do whatever Rebecca wanted if it kept her from whispering what she knew.

So he came at her summons whenever she called him for a little off the books action. He came with mealworms shoved surreptitiously into his pocket that he’d sneak whenever it seemed like her insistence that they were only going to ‘talk’ to the bad guys was going as poorly as it generally did. And the moment she raised her gun, he’d be ready to attack.

She didn’t ask why he was still so fast and strong. One of those things they pretended wasn’t happening. And he tried to keep the feats of superhuman abilities to a minimum. No more pulling people’s arms off or kicking their spines out of their bodies. After decades of incapacitating victims for Dracula to kill later, he was skilled at knocking his targets out without wasting their precious blood.

So he helped her arrest the bad guys off the clock. And sometimes made a body or two disappear if that was what she needed.

He’d killed those his master set him upon for decades. Now he killed for her.

At least it meant he wasn’t alone.

But it wasn’t a life. So little of how he spent his time could be called that.

And he had only limited time to find what a life could look like.

Two years to the day. That was when he knew he’d stayed long enough.

Overnight he uprooted his life, packed it away, and prepared to set off for a city he’d picked at random off the map.

At least this time he stayed long enough to say goodbye.

Rebecca didn’t seem surprised. Although she did seem sad. She hugged him. She told him to keep in touch. She said she was proud of him. She wished him well.

Mark and the others didn’t seem surprised either. Maybe a little relieved that this reminder of their past was finally moving on. Maybe a little afraid that he wouldn’t be there to threaten their tormentors into staying away. But they hugged him. They told him to stay in touch. They said they were proud of him. They wished him well.

And then he left.

Another city, another life.

It didn’t take him long to slip into the trappings of life – an address, a library card, an employer.

Real life – connections and hobbies and reasons to get up every morning… that took longer.

He tried out a dating app once the silence began screaming too relentlessly in his mind. Men, women, non-binary – he found no preference.

He just… wasn’t eager to get too intimate with any of them.

There had been others before Dracula – he’d fathered a child after all. And he’d been a young man during the repressed Victorian era which meant he’d done things in discreet gentlemen’s clubs that were never admitted to in the sunlight.

But there had been only one for so long.

One who’d given pleasure and terror in turn.

And Renfield couldn’t imagine allowing anyone else to touch him that way.

Not when he was still owned.

Two years to the day. And then he packed up his life, stepped aboard a bus bound for the other end of the country, and headed off for a new life.

That would be the pattern. Two years was long enough anywhere. Any longer and he might dare grow comfortable. Might dare down roots that would eventually lead to his unchanging face becoming a source of wonder.

Might dare start pretending that he could have a future.

So he roamed, finding places to belong for a little while in whatever city he briefly called home.

In Ann Arbor, he attended classes and frequented the bars where the university students played. He was so quick to spot someone slipping a drug into unattended drinks that he gained a reputation as a safe chaperone for the girls first daring to try their fledgling wings beyond their parents’ protection.

In Miami, he volunteered at the nature center, introducing children to insects of all shapes and sizes and receiving shrieks of shock and delight as he allowed the hissing cockroach to crawl over his face.

In San Jose, he tried out surfing. He joined hiking and skiing groups, being appreciated as one who dealt with injuries with unflappable calm and as a strong hand for helping a limping partner down the mountain.

He flitted against lives, cautiously feeling out what it was like to approach people for companionship rather than as potential victims. Tried to understand life in the modern world where class held less distinction. Tried to find those of equal social awkwardness to himself who were willing to try things and explore possibilities.

He made a good show at pretending he wasn’t waiting for the ax to fall.

---

It was eight years before he felt his master’s presence.

Dusk was falling. He was walking his elderly neighbor’s yappy little dogs as he did every evening. She’d confided to him about how nervous the howls of the coyotes made her feel, and he’d responded that the children of the night had never bothered him, which he’d meant as reassurance, but she’d taken as an offer to walk her beloved Yorkshire Terriers, and he’d felt too awkward to contradict her.

He always felt he needed to do something for any person he marked as easy to abduct and unlikely to be immediately missed.

The guilt of decades of being… tolerable at his job still rode heavily in his mind.

Heavily enough to make the occasional predatory relative or abusive partner disappear from a neighbor’s life now that he didn’t have a cop watching his every move.

He had seen Rebecca a handful of times since leaving New Orleans. She’d stayed, even after her sister had transferred elsewhere. Even after the Lobos family had begun to rebuild itself. Even after the new chief of police proved as easy to bribe as the last.

New Orleans was her home, and she fought to make it safer with a tenacity Renfield didn’t exactly understand. He’d always collected whatever was left of Dracula once the hunters had been dispatched and moved on without a backwards glance at the last city they’d temporarily called home.

But he admired her, and when she called him for help or to join her for Christmas dinner if her sister was away, he’d always come.

She was his oldest friend after all.

And she held his freedom in her grasp.

It came to him in a rush of hunger. Brutal, unassailable hunger. A chasm yawning huge and demanding. Screaming to be filled.

It toppled him to his knees – the relentless NEED in his mind, in his soul. Clawing at him, leaving him as empty and desolate as the echo in his head.

It faded to a tolerable degree at last that lingered at the edge of his consciousness.

It came with no orders. He felt no compulsion to find and feed the emptiness. To abandon his pretended life in favor of prostrating himself before the one who’d loved and hurt him in turn.

But the desire to respond pulsed in his own heart.

He awoke to the world curled on the sidewalk, the yorkies licking his face and another neighbor bending over to ask if he’d had a heart attack. He wasn’t exactly believed as he crawled to his feet and limped the dogs back to their owner.

Returning home, he crushed himself into the closet, wrapped his arms over his head, and shook.

The terror and desire and dread and hope and agony and ecstasy went on all night long.

It was only with the morning light and the buzzing of his alarm clock that he teased his own mind separate from the mindless need of his master and forced himself to stand.

Shower. Dress. Eat. Drive to work.

Pretend like everything was normal.

Pretend like the confirmation of all he hoped and dreaded hadn’t at last come to pass.

He didn’t return to New Orleans. But he didn’t run either.

He’d thought more than once about returning to England, his long unvisited homeland.

But it wasn’t home. Home had been wherever Dracula was. At his master’s feet was where he felt belonging, felt security. Everywhere else was just… space.

And that was still true. A familiar without a master was no creature at all. It belonged nowhere, had no purpose of its own.

His soul was claimed, and every hour he spent separated from where he belonged tore it further into ribbons.

And to cross the sea… to distance himself from the voice that controlled and calmed him…

He’d done that once. Never again.

He didn’t return to New Orleans. And he didn’t run.

Master would find him even in the depths of Hell.

Where on Earth could he have gone where the count wouldn’t unearth him?

That evening, he returned home with a welcome mat under his arm. He laid it out on the stoop and smoothed a hand over the invitation for any and all to enter.

And he stepped inside to wait.

Chapter 4: His Pets Are of Odd Sorts

Notes:

I found some clips of the 1931 movie and borrowed Martin the mean orderly from it. I doubt I did much justice to his character from one scene of content, but it saved me from having to come up with a name for an original character.

Before...

“What are you doing?”

Renfield froze at the sharp voice behind him and hunkered over the windowsill.

He wanted to say that he wasn’t doing anything. Because it wasn’t the business of Martin or any of the other attendants who lurked at the door of his cell and burst in on him at all hours of the day and night to ensure he was behaving himself.

Privacy wasn’t a luxury he was allowed.

But clearly he was doing something. He wouldn’t have saved the sugar from his tea to spread across the sill without a plan in mind.

“It isn’t any of your business,” he growled.

And it wasn’t, was it? He wasn’t violating any of the asylum’s multitude of rules. He’d behaved himself lately. He didn’t raise objections to the long stretches he spent confined. He didn’t fight with the other inmates or make much noise. He kept to himself when permitted into the garden.

But the attendants watched him relentlessly. Dogged his footsteps. Watched him with ceaselessly suspicious eyes. Said he was antisocial. Uncooperative. Proof of his sickness.

Why was it wrong to want to be allowed a few secrets?

He listened to the sound of the viewing window slamming shut followed by the bolt being drawn and the door opening. The authoritative tramp of feet crossing the room and then Martin loomed over him, one hand resting threateningly on his baton.

Renfield cowered back, immediately giving ground as the sneering man claimed the space before the window.

Martin was more than willing to hit and slap to make the inmates behave.

Whether they were misbehaving or not.

Renfield had complained at first, but all his words had done was brand him as a troublemaker and cause Martin to single him out for abuse.

Dr. Seward wouldn’t rein in his underlings.

Master was too far away to protect his own.

Renfield had only himself to rely upon.

And that was why the windowsill was currently covered in sugar.

“Making messes?” Martin hissed. “If you don’t behave, you won’t get your tea at all.”

Objections bubbled up in Renfield’s mind.

Wasn’t it bad enough that they kept him under lock and key? Did they have to threaten to starve him as well?

He swallowed the thoughts down and forced himself to grovel before the superior force. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered.

“Wasting food,” Martin went on, tapping a finger against the sugar. “Trying to escape.”

“I wasn’t!” Renfield started to protest, then fell back with a nervous stutter as Martin raised a warning hand.

“I saw you,” the attendant insisted. “Trying to get over the garden wall. Idiot. It’s too high for any of you cretins to scale.”

I could. Renfield’s eyes flickered to the scattered sugar. If only…

“I was just looking,” he replied plaintively. “Just looking at the neighboring house.”

And that was the truth.

Sometimes… sometimes he could remember what Master had sent him to do.

Find houses. Find locations. Empty houses. All across London and beyond.

Where Master could rest in the day without being disturbed.

Where local hunting grounds could be explored night after night.

Where Renfield could bid Master welcome.

Renfield had been sent ahead. To prepare for the master’s coming. Buy the property. Put them in Master’s name. Be there to receive the household furnishings and decorate to Master’s preferences and needs.

Welcome him across the thresholds.

Sometimes he remembered. Sometimes he paced at night, hearing - or dreaming he heard - his master’s far away call.

Sometimes he remembered why he’d been so close to the asylum when the emptiness in his mind had grown to be too much to endure.

Sometimes he looked upon the empty house next door and remembered that it was meant to be Master’s.

That Renfield was on the wrong side of the wall.

But the memories only lasted so long before the silence in his mind screamed louder than thoughts, and he was left shaking and incoherent, sobbing helplessly to be so far from where he belonged.

He needed… he needed something to help him think.

He needed time to think. To remember the answers that were supposed to guide his life.

But there was no time in the asylum. Somehow. Despite how often he was locked away for hours on end. Despite how he avoided the other inmates when he was allowed into the garden.

Somehow the attendants’ demands and Dr. Seward’s questions always came too soon and threw him too far into uncertainty.

He could never claw his way back to the surface before they’d bombarded him with questions again.

Sometimes he thought they liked him this way – wrongfooted and maddened and scared of his own mind.

Maybe they took pleasure in watching the helpless wriggle in their grasp.

But he need not be helpless.

If only…

His eyes flitted from Martin to the sugar. To the one hope he had…

“You lunatics,” Martin snarled. “Always making me clean up after you.” With a flick of his wrist, the precious grains of sugar sailed out the window.

“No!” Renfield cried and sprang forward, only to be met by a sharp backhand to the face followed by a baton to the stomach and several kicks once he was on the floor. He curled around himself, his hands over his face and his knees drawn to his chest.

Martin muttered curses and threats as he swept away the rest of the sugar. As he took away the tea and any hope of using the crumbs for any purpose beyond eating an immediate meal.

Renfield stayed perfectly still until he heard the bolt slide home and the footsteps retreat. Cautiously, he uncoiled and rose, taking care not to spill the blood pooling from his nose into his palm.

He tipped it carefully onto the windowsill, forming the drops into a puddle that he hoped would stay moist long enough for the scent to carry. That done, he inched beneath his bed and emerged with the glass he’d sequestered away the day before and the handkerchief and string he'd formed into a lid.

As he crawled dizzily to his feet, he heard the tell-tale buzz and saw a dark form flit in through the open window to alight upon the offering of blood.

And Renfield smiled.

---

“What are you doing?”

Renfield surged to his feet, clasping the precious glass behind his back and recoiling as far from the door as the room would allow.

He’d been lying on the floor, curled in a sliver of sunlight, watching the light dance across the iridescent fly wings.

There were seven now. Carefully baited in with sugar laid out early in the morning before the attendants made their rounds.

Renfield had grown very skilled at concealing and preserving his sugar ration within a knot of his bedsheet.

The joy the insects brought him was worth every bitter mouthful of unsweetened tea.

Occasionally he sacrificed a fly to increase his own speed to aid in the catching of more. But that was all.

He couldn’t bear to eat the whole of his pretties to teach Martin and the others the lesson they so richly deserved. Not when their presence was the only lifeline he had to sanity.

He kept the glass beneath his cot, only daring to extract it from concealment when he was certain the attendants wouldn’t look in on him. He couldn’t dare an instant’s carelessness that might deprive him of the glass.

Today had seemed safe. The attendants were out on the grounds with the other inmates. Martin had decided that Renfield had been too interested in measuring the garden wall the day before and had denied him the exercise period. So be it. It was a lovely day to watch the flies dance.

They’d become the center of Renfield’s world. All he wondered about and admired.

How beautifully the light reflected off their prism wings. How curious were their enormous eyes.

How could they fly on such fragile wings? What was the use of those hairs upon their legs? How curious a tongue they had and how interesting it was when the tongue flattened against food or drink. Did it suck bits up inside it? Were there tiny teeth on the end? Was it the wings which made the buzzing sound or some voice box or something else?

A thousand things to wonder about. A thousand things which he was certain to lose as Dr. Seward stepped into the room.

The doctor took care to shut the door firmly behind him. “What is that, Renfield?” he asked with the gentleness of an adult speaking to a child.

Renfield clutched the glass as tight as he dared. “It’s mine!” he insisted desperately.

Surely the doctor wouldn’t be so cruel as to take this away? Surely taking his liberty of movement and restricting his diet and asking him so many senseless questions was enough? Surely there was some mercy left within the world?

“Renfield,” Dr. Seward continued with too much patience and condescension in his tone. “I must see what you have.”

“You’ll… you’ll take them away.”

“I need to know what you have before I can determine that. Will you let me see?” Dr. Seward paused a long moment in wait for Renfield’s compliance. When it didn’t come, he spoke again. “Do I need to call the attendants?” His hand strayed toward the whistle dangling around his neck.

“No! Please don’t call them!” Renfield surged forward, extending the glass with trembling hands. “Please don’t call them. Please, you can see. Please don’t…”

He tried to keep his grip on the glass, but Dr. Seward plucked it from his hands and held it up to the light.

“Flies?” he marveled, his voice ringing with surprise. “Where did you get these?”

Renfield didn’t dare move to reclaim his treasure even as his eyes followed every movement of the glass. “I caught them.”

“Did you?” Dr. Seward gave him an impressed look. “You must be very quick.”

Renfield flushed and looked away.

The urge to babble too much information in response to the minuscule compliment was strong. He could have spilled to Dr. Seward then and there the secret of his heightened reflexes and speed just to receive a little more attention from the captor who’d rarely looked twice at him.

But he clamped down on his tongue and held his peace.

Dr. Seward held his leash, but he was not Renfield’s master.

He owed the doctor no information.

Dr. Seward continued asking questions about how long he’d been catching flies and how he’d lured them to roost and what he’d noticed about them.

Renfield’s eager description of their parts and properties and his wonderings at their abilities and makeup seemed to interest Dr. Seward. He actually sat upon the edge of the bed, the glass held carefully in his hands, while Renfield stood before him, relating his observations with the obedience of a schoolboy.

“I must continue with my rounds,” the doctor said at last as he rose. “But I’m pleased to see you taking an interest in something.” He extended the glass.

Renfield’s hands trembled as he reclaimed the glass. “I can keep them?”

“You may. And I’ll bring you some proper collection jars so you can better contain your flock.”

Renfield hugged the glass to his chest, his heart ringing with joy he hadn’t felt since being sent away from Transylvania. “You’ll tell the attendants I can keep them? So they won’t hurt them?”

“Of course, Renfield. Your pets will be quite safe here.”

Pets? That was what the doctor thought? Well, it was better than him guessing the truth.

Alone, Renfield dared set the glass upon the windowsill and admired his pretties in the full light.

If he could have the flies, if he could have the quiet to watch and study them, maybe he’d be alright. Watching them dance, focusing on the minuteness of their appearance, it helped settle the restless chaos in his mind.

Maybe he could remember what he was meant to do.

Chapter 5: Unraveling

Now…

Two years to the date, and Renfield left his most recent home behind.

Packing was always just a matter of stuffing his clothes into a single suitcase, releasing any remaining insects, and leaving the rest of his belongings behind as he set off toward another dot on the map.

This time the only addition was the welcome mat.

He told himself he wasn’t running, that he wouldn’t pick the furthest possible city from New Orleans.

Nor was he drifting closer, following the tug at his soul to return where he belonged.

Billings, Montana was an acceptable compromise in terms of distance.

Not so easy to get traction there as it had been in the other cities.

Apparently, he looked too… metropolitan for the taste of the locals.

Granted, plenty of those who sneered at his appearance also hinted at a quickie in a gas station bathroom, so the signals he received were decidedly mixed.

Renfield took to keeping a spider or two on him at all times just in case the locals proved the forceful type.

He’d tried not to raise bugs or keep them on his person any longer. The illusion of that part of his life being over was easier to maintain if he simply stopped at a pet store for a container of mealworms when necessity demanded.

Much better than raising ant farms or cricket colonies and beginning to think of them as his friends.

No, he’d never quite gone that far. Those brief lives sacrificed regularly for his survival couldn’t be thought of with too much affection. Always best not to get attached no matter how fascinating they were to watch.

He’d always supposed Dracula felt the same way about the humans, though Renfield had never engaged him in such serious conversations.

They’d had more conversations once, he thought wistfully. Back at the beginning when Dracula had enjoyed his presence. And even in the middle when they’d been thoroughly settled into their master and servant roles, but Dracula would still sometimes fall to talking to him as if he was a confidant and companion. When there had still been so much of the world to see, and Dracula had still taken an interest in more than just surviving.

That plan for world dominion that he’d had right at the end – madness and horror, certainly. But the first time Renfield had seen his master think of anything beyond his next meal in quite a while.

When had they both deteriorated to purely surviving? When had the one stopped feeling pleasure in anything besides a particularly delectable meal and the other stopped feeling desire for anything more than an uninterrupted day of sleep?

He could remember the happy times, their first decades together standing out like drops of gold in the vast sea of memories. He still remembered the enjoyment and thrill and… and love.

But recently? When had Dracula last laughed? When had Dracula last brought him to bed with affectionate and attentive touches? When had Dracula last awoken early in the evening, impatient to be off to the theatre and talking nonstop about this composer or that performer while chiding Renfield for being slow at dressing him?

In the beginning, Renfield had followed where his master led him across the world, overwhelmed at all there was to see while Dracula eagerly strode onward, absorbing cultures and lives like an insatiable sponge.

But in recent times, it had been Renfield who’d led. Who’d found them new homes without bothering to ask Dracula’s feelings about Prague or Barcelona or Savannah because he knew all he’d receive would be indifferent grunts. Who’d given up bringing theatre programs home or attempting to finagle invitations from the local elites since Dracula rarely showed interest in anything besides the nearest hunting ground.

The mass feedings had grown so much more common, sometimes only months between the spurts of debauchery which left Renfield scrambling to dispose of corpses and patrolling in sleepless exhaustion until the hunters inevitably found them.

And then would come the fights, which even if they always won, Dracula seemed to get hurt more often than before.

Then the move. The stretch of nursing the vampire back to health. Then the vampire loose upon an unsuspecting population until he was compelled toward another feeding frenzy.

And the cycle dragged on relentlessly.

A master dead to the pleasures of the world. A master relying on Renfield to handle absolutely every need of their lives without so much as an acknowledging glance for a job well done.

The indifference had gone on so long that Renfield hadn’t even realized he was starving until he’d stumbled into that meeting filled with humans complaining of their destructive partners and abruptly realized that he’d have been grateful for Dracula to beat him for his faults if it only meant his master would look at him and see him again. See him as more than just a set of limbs that existed as an extension of the vampire’s will.

How long had that been all he was?

No wonder Renfield had been ready to sever their connection when the support group had opened his eyes to something beyond wearily living to serve.

But now… after years of living on his own… after trekking across the country in search of life and fulfillment…

…he missed Dracula more than ever.

The ten-year mark moved to the twelfth, and Renfield crossed the Mississippi River and settled in Indianapolis, removing one less water barrier between himself and New Orleans. When the fourteenth anniversary came without his master coming for him, he drifted further south, halting in Nashville and feeling a restless urge to keep going.

He’d moved into paralegal work in Billings and continued that now, taking more classes in whatever university he settled near and debating becoming a full-fledged lawyer in this new era and country.

But his documentation to even be in the states was shaky at best. He tried not to flirt with human danger too often.

Rebecca was well into her forties now and spending more of her time working within the law than fighting personal wars after hours. Her calls came more infrequently, and the threat of what she knew loomed with weakened ferocity.

He made excuses when she called him for social visits.

She’d suspect the truth if she saw his face, and he didn’t want her to ever know that his soul would never be his own.

Or that his mind was unraveling.

That had started long before. He’d felt the strain even before he’d left New Orleans.

A familiar without a master. A familiar too long separated from his creator’s side.

He knew the sensation of beginning to drift. Of losing time and of memories flittering away like flies escaping a jar. Of his own thoughts reverberating against an emptiness within his mind and finding no footholds on the slippery slope towards forgetting himself entirely.

At least this time he’d expected it. At least this time he knew how to stave it off.

Companionship helped. Coworkers and friends, transient though both were in the life he’d chosen. But at least there were people who knew he existed and provided a degree of conversation and contact to help him stay aware of reality.

Studying something helped. In the asylum before it had been the flies and spiders. Documenting their movements and anatomy had been the focus that gave him a lifeline until Master had come for him.

In the modern world, he wasn’t reduced to stalking flies. The internet gave him a thousand subjects to read about, and videos and podcasts galore to occupy his mind. There were new hobbies to be tried and old skills to be renewed with new twists.

Working for his master definitely helped. That had been what had kept him sane in England for the first couple years as he prepared the way for the count’s coming. Fulfilling the purpose of a familiar even while separated from the vampire was the best way to keep from losing himself.

The last time he hadn’t realized the necessity of that. Hadn’t realized that the cure when his mind started to slip was MORE work, not the rest periods he’d taken with more frequency until he’d forgotten entirely the reason he was in England. Hadn’t known how to convince himself that whatever he did – even taking care of himself – counted as being useful to Dracula.

Despite Dracula’s absence, Renfield continued to work in the count’s name. He’d managed Dracula’s stock profile for decades, taking full responsibility for it somewhere around the sixties when Dracula had stopped caring where the money came from so long as Renfield could keep a roof over their heads.

Unfortunately, trying to research proper stock options and maintain a false identity that could buy and sell property with ease on top of his everyday concerns and duties had always left long-term financial planning as an afterthought when feeding his master and keeping the hunters at bay had taken immediate priority. The money had been slipping away faster than it had come in for a long time, as proven by the shabbier and shadier hideouts Renfield had found.

Now Renfield quietly grew the stock portfolio, buying land whenever he could and investing aggressively in corporations that looked likely for long-term growth.

A century of watching the market had taught him a few things about human interest and necessity, and he pushed funds accordingly.

There would be ready cash to keep the count in luxury for some time and land retreats across the continent where he could find sanctuary.

It wouldn’t be enough to save Renfield from his master’s wrath, but it was something to do and something to help focus his mind.

For a few years at least.

But as time crawled by, there was little Renfield could do to stave off the coming madness.

His dreams were nightmares of emptiness. Of wandering labyrinths of endless grey walls with no clue of direction. Of forests shrouded in mist so thick that he could hear nothing but the terrified panting of his hollow breaths. Of falling and knowing there was no ground. That he could scream, and no one would hear.

That he was entirely, irreparably, alone.

His waking was filled with hallucinations. Noises teasing just at the edge of his hearing that no one else heard. Flashes at the periphery of his vision that belonged to no shape when he turned in search of them. Stretches in which he heard the world as if through a mass of water or in which his coworkers’ words came to him in a garbled babble that made no sense.

He followed scents of rotting corpses to no conclusion. Chased after people he recognized in a crowd only to find a stranger when they turned around. Ate food that turned rancid in his throat and threatened to choke him.

No matter how much he surrounded himself with people, he always felt alone and cut off. No matter how much noise reverberated around him, it couldn’t silence the screaming emptiness in his mind.

He longed for the only one who could fill the void.

At first he’d felt only his master’s hunger, but Dracula was recovered past the blindness of pure appetite now. Renfield felt his emotions in infrequent spurts. Anger. Frustration. Pleasure. Satisfaction.

The vampire was on the move. The unerring compass in Renfield’s mind always pointed to his true north, to the one who owned his soul. Dracula was no longer confined to New Orleans. He’d moved on, probably found a new life for himself. Probably a new familiar. Someone more competent than Renfield had ever been.

Renfield wasn’t even worth finding to punish.

He could have gone to him. Given up his pretend life to bridge the miles between them and cast himself at Dracula’s feet.

But for the slave to impose himself upon the master’s attention... For the traitor to return like a prodigal as if he had any hope of forgiveness...

For the sinful devotee to dare sully the presence of the god...

Renfield didn’t hope for forgiveness. He couldn’t even hope for a quick death. He could only wait until his master deigned to remember his existence and came for him. And whatever Dracula did then would be right and just for a familiar who’d betrayed his oath, the very reason he existed.

He tried saying the affirmations. He tried to look at himself in the mirror and say that he was enough. That he deserved love and happiness.

It all felt like lies.

Year sixteen, and he moved again, heading northeast this time in search of states with more reliable healthcare than the American south.

The end was coming soon. Either Dracula would come for his vengeance, or Renfield’s mind would fragment irreparably.

Either way, his time of pretending at life was over.

He didn’t try to find a job. Just a cheap hotel with wi-fi enough for him to research how to get himself checked into a long-term mental institution.

And when Renfield knew he was losing more time than he felt lucid, he took himself out of the world.

He told the medical officials who checked him into the institution that he was hearing voices.

He wished it was true.

Chapter 6: Here Was My Own Pet Lunatic

Before...

“If you can hatch their eggs, we can look at the maggots in detail next.”

Renfield looked up from the microscope, blinking into Dr. Seward’s politely smiling face as the world came back into focus.

Life had become much kinder ever since the doctor had decided to make a pet out of Renfield. Being Dr. Sewards’s favorite patient came with privileges that Renfield greatly appreciated. The attendants were more careful now that they knew the bruises would be noticed. They didn’t complain about what he did with his food, and sometimes he could beg an extra ration of sugar when it suited Dr. Seward to display benevolence.

Renfield was careful about what he asked for. He had jars enough for his fly-catching and had tested out how large a collection he could amass before the doctor told him to eliminate some of his specimens. And as the doctor seemed to consider feeding the flies to spiders and the spiders in turn to the birds to be an acceptable form of population control, Renfield no longer needed to fear his collection being taken from him.

It was a shame the doctor hadn’t gone along with his scheme to get a cat to deal with birds when the attendants complained about their messes. But he’d dealt with the birds in his own way, and he’d been careful since to dispose of the spiders himself before their numbers grew too large again, so he hadn’t had to resort to sparrows.

The indigestion had left him too sick to enjoy the power flare.

In hindsight he wasn’t at all sure what he’d have done with the cat. He’d had a vague idea of training it to bring him mice, but he couldn’t recall if cats worked that way.

Best to stick with spiders.

Besides allowing him to collect the insects, Dr. Seward kept him well supplied in note paper, and, when he was feeling generous, sometimes he’d bring Renfield with him to the laboratory and allow him to look at beetles and butterflies from the garden beneath the microscope or provide the tools for a delicate dissection of their minuscule parts.

Renfield didn’t believe for a second that Dr. Seward cared about his rambling observations regarding the agility of the flies or the hunting tactics of the spiders, but it helped ground him to speak to someone, and it amused the doctor to indulge his fancies.

So it worked out for both of them.

Renfield was aware that he was a replacement, a distraction, from Dr. Seward’s true passions. But then, the doctor was the same for him.

Lucy.

He heard the name often even if Dr. Seward didn’t notice how frequently it dropped from his lips.

The girl the doctor loved. The girl who’d chosen another. The girl who’d chosen someone of wealth and rank that Seward couldn’t hope to compete against.

It left him lonely and sleepless and seeking out Renfield as a distraction for his aching heart.

Renfield held no illusions about the doctor’s interest in him. It was not personal. Not affectionate. Not even kind. Not a relationship which would endure beyond Renfield’s ability to hold his scientific curiosity.

Had that been true of Master as well? Was that why Renfield had been abandoned? Had he outlasted Master’s use or disappointed him too often?

He remembered that he’d sent some correspondence back to Transylvania. That he’d arranged for the purchase of some number of properties. That he’d succeeded to some degree before his thoughts had scattered to the wind.

Had it been enough? Had he completed enough for the master to manage without him? Had he been silent so long that Master had elected to replace him?

The house next door was sold. He’d heard the attendants talking, though no one had appeared to take possession of it.

It made Renfield grind his teeth and pace the garden wall in fury.

That house was supposed to belong to the master! It would have, if Renfield hadn’t so thoroughly failed. Then the count would be in residence. Nearby to summon his familiar. To save him.

To make the world make sense again.

His lucid periods were more frequent now, though he was careful to hide it for the most part. It amused Dr. Seward to see him mad, so mad he would be.

The thing was… it didn’t take much to appear mad once the stigma had fallen.

Was it mad to study the anatomy and behavior of the insects? If it was, then every scientist who’d ever put ink to paper was mad, but it was only Renfield who was deemed so for concentrating on the one interest he had in this place of empty walls and desolate hallways.

Was it mad to eat the insects? People did it all over the globe, even if the English had declared it a low thing. Granted, no one else received from the insects what Renfield did.

He’d told Dr. Seward that consuming the lifeforce made him strong when he’d been caught at the bug-eating. Dr. Seward called it a delusion and gave the behavior a name. He wrote extensively, asking Renfield all the wrong questions about his supposed condition.

Renfield answered readily because the questions never strayed anywhere near the truth. And though he’d never give up his master, he had no fear of a scientific man guessing the supernatural reasons behind Renfield’s menagerie.

The doctor knew he was strong. The attendants had learned to be careful of him. But none had connected the bugs with his power.

Renfield was very careful to limit the skills he demonstrated and to hide his eyes when his master’s power surged in his veins.

“If you’re finished with the microscope, I wonder if we could talk,” the doctor said, and Renfield agreed readily, aware that pleasing the doctor was essential to maintaining his good treatment and privileges.

They settled in Dr. Seward’s office on opposite sides of the desk.

At least Renfield was allowed a chair now. At least the attendants didn’t loom at his back. But Dr. Seward always wore his whistle. One blast would bring the men to pin Renfield to the floor and teach him proper manners if he didn’t behave as he ought while Seward watched with that amused smile hovering on his lips.

In his own way, Dr. Seward was as fierce a master as Renfield’s own.

And he did seem to enjoy playing cruelly with his pets when the mood struck him.

If the quirk of his lip was any indication, this was to be one of those days.

“I’ve been looking into your history, Renfield, and I wondered if you could clarify some things for me.”

Renfield nodded quickly. “Yes, Doctor. Whatever you would like to know.” He braced himself for the sort of questions which were sure to set his mind reeling.

That was how Dr. Seward liked to play. Give him a little while of discovery and privilege in the lab, then reinforce that Renfield was nothing but a madman cast from society.

A helpless bug to be ground under the doctor’s heel if it pleased him to watch his patient suffer.

“I have your admission papers here,” the doctor said, opening a folder. “You might recall there was some confusion about your age.”

Renfield squirmed. “It must be a mistake.”

“Oh, there’s no mistaking it. Robert Montague Renfield, born the twelfth of February 1831.” His eyes rose to meet Renfield’s. “I’ve checked up on you. Third son of a once wealthy family that’s… experienced a bit of a decline, yes?”

Renfield bit his tongue and stared hard at the floor.

His grandfather had never stopped going on about how much better the family had once been. But being of second or third born sons begetting second or third born of their own had taken Robert Renfield’s branch of the family tree far from center with progressively less wealth available for inheritance with each generation until they’d had a name and pedigree and little else to show for it. Oh, there was a farm. And decent trade in the city. And sometimes they’d ranked well enough to be invited to parties where Robert’s older siblings were pushed into the paths of wealthy prospective spouses (most of whom walked around them with a scornful air), but the chances of the younger members of the brood being cast into society to work for a living had been high, and filled his parents and grandfather with such shame as to take it out on the children as if it was their fault for being born.

Robert, too pretty and soft for his father and grandfather’s approval, had seemed to take the brunt of their scorn. Maybe they’d been right. Maybe he had been a failure from the start. Maybe he had been clumsier and stupider than the rest.

It certainly explained where he’d ended up.

“I’ve been checking up on you,” Dr. Seward went on. “Robert Montague Renfield born, 1831. Apprenticed and later clerk to Marley and Marley’s Solicitors, 1845. Married, 1856. Sent abroad on assignment 1861. And…” His eyes rose to fasten into Renfield’s. “…never heard from again.”

Renfield squirmed uneasily.

Dr. Seward leaned back, steepling his fingers together. “You see my confusion, don’t you? Since this man…” He stabbed a finger against the papers. “…is 59 years old. Whereas you… you hardly look a day over thirty.”

Renfield wet his lips nervously before hazarding, “Healthy living?”

That was probably a lie. Unless years of eating bugs and sleeping curled up beside a coffin counted as healthy.

Dr. Seward smiled that condescending look that always made Renfield want to scream. “Come, Mr. Renfield. We both know better than that.”

“Really, Doctor. If you’ve gone to all the trouble of finding out about my life, you must know that man is me.” Renfield felt his heart racing with sudden terror and a strange sense of not being himself. Or any self. Just a ghost inhabiting a body which wasn’t his own. “I can tell you the names of my parents! Where I was born! My schoolmasters! My wife! My… my daughter.”

His voice broke with increasing pain.

Her image swam with perfect clarity before his eyes. That body so small and fragile when they’d placed it in his arms. Wispy hair already as dark as his. She’d had her mother’s laugh, even in her infancy.

She’d been three years old when he’d last seen her. A clever and exhausting creature who’d gotten into everything and inclined him to work even longer hours away from home to avoid her interruptions and her mother’s nagging.

He hadn’t loved either of them as well as he should have. He’d failed to show the love he’d felt.

They were in France the last he’d heard. They’d used the money he’d sent them when he’d sold his soul to relocate closer to his wife’s family and closer to proper finishing schools. He’d sent them money faithfully for years. Even after they’d stopped seeming important, after no creature in the world had mattered besides the master, he’d continued dutifully to provide.

How long had it been since he’d heard from them? They’d sent him letters at first. Maybe they’d never stopped. Maybe he’d simply stopped opening them, or they’d stopped being delivered, or the count had thrown them away when he saw that Renfield no longer cared to acknowledge their contents.

His daughter would be as old as he’d been when he'd first gone abroad by now. She was probably married. Had children of her own.

And he would never see her or any of his other family again.

He only realized he was sobbing uncontrollably when the attendants dumped him into his cell and left him to weep out his misery alone.

He slid to his knees and raised plaintive hands towards the window in supplication to the god who no longer heard him.

Master! Master, I’ve been gone from your side too long! Master, I barely know who I am anymore. Please have mercy upon me. I know I’ve failed you. Please give me another chance. Please…

It was not the master who came to him in his loneliness but Dr. Seward.

Dr. Seward looking far too smug to see his patient cowering upon the floor like a beaten dog.

“It’s difficult to realize the truth, isn’t it? I know it hurts, but you’ll feel better once you acknowledge reality.”

“…Reality?” Renfield slurred somewhere through the torrent of memories and wonderings of what could have been. His hands fumbled to open the nearest jar, nearly crushing the spider too soon as he crammed it into his mouth and bowed his head to conceal the tell-tale flare of amber.

With the spider’s lifeforce now throbbing in his veins, the world sharpened into rudimentary focus, some of the dizziness wearing off so that he could at least hear Dr. Seward without fear of further collapse.

“Can you tell me?” the doctor coaxed. “Can you tell me what you know to be true?”

What? What did he mean? Hadn’t that been what had sent him spiraling into memories?

“I…” Renfield panted. “What do you want me to say?”

That was safest, wasn’t it? Whatever would make the doctor smile his self-satisfied look. Pat Renfield on the head. Tell him it would be all right. That Renfield might be a homicidal maniac, but he was his homicidal maniac. That he’d be safe in the asylum forever

It must have been the right answer since Dr. Seward went on in an eager coaxing tone. “I want you to admit to yourself that you’re not the man who left England thirty years ago.”

“No…” Renfield agreed unsteadily.

That was true after all. The young and ambitious solicitor who’d departed England was certainly not the same man who’d prostrated himself at his master’s feet and begged not to be sent back.

The young man from those days had had no idea that the monsters of the old tales were real and that they could be more terrifying and more tender than any legend could describe.

“That man,” Dr. Seward continued, “went away on a business voyage. Maybe he died overseas. Maybe he’s still there somewhere. But what we can be certain of is that somewhere abroad he met someone. A young lady.”

Renfield gazed blankly up at the doctor.

There’d been three ladies in the castle, yes. Two when Renfield had first arrived and a third ‘sister’ added to their numbers some years after. Renfield had been kept away from them, no matter how often they’d begged the count to let them play with his pet. But Dracula had always beaten them back, protecting his familiar from their hungry fangs. Renfield was his servant and plaything alone, he’d decreed. They’d be permitted toys of their own only once they were mature enough not to break their presents the first night.

Those probably weren’t the women Dr. Seward meant.

But perhaps some memory of them showed on his face for the doctor went on with his suppositions. “It’s unkind to speak ill of those who aren’t here to defend themselves, but the proof of his indiscretions is right in front of me, isn’t it?”

Renfield frowned his confusion and wished for a few more spiders to try and help him make sense of this strangeness.

“I’m sure it was difficult for you – a child born out of wedlock in a foreign land. And the mixing with inferior races has been known to cause madness, so you can be comforted that your condition is the result of your parents’ improprieties and perhaps a barbaric and heretical upbringing. It’s commendable that you brought yourself to England. Perhaps you hoped to find clarity of mind and purpose in a civilized land?”

Renfield stared stupidly up at the doctor.

What was he saying? That Renfield wasn’t Renfield? Or wasn’t the original Renfield at any rate. That his memories of his family and schooling and wife and employment were all false?

It… it wasn’t as unbelievable as it should have been. That life… it felt more like a dream. Reality was the sting of his master’s teeth as they pierced his neck. The cold and powerful hands holding him down to take what they pleased as Renfield yielded eagerly to the superior force. The flush of pleasure at a hand laid upon his bowed head. A voice telling the kneeling servant that he was pleased, so pleased, with the service rendered up to him.

Except, that reality was far across the sea leaving only emptiness in its wake.

An empty mind willing to suck up Dr. Seward’s assessment of truth if it made the world make sense.

“Yes, Doctor,” Renfield mumbled, hanging his head low.

He didn’t know what he was agreeing to. Just that it was what the doctor wanted.

And indeed, Dr. Seward spoke further approval of Renfield’s actions. For his willingness to accept harsh truths. For taking this first step towards healing.

And he laid a hand benevolently upon Renfield’s head.

It took all his effort to hold rigid and not to savage this false master until Dr. Seward had walked away.

Notes:

I spent far too long calculating dates for this.

At the end of Dracula, Jonathan Harker says it's been seven years since the events of the novel, so I assumed 1890 as the date of those events and chose everything else in relation. My math is probably wrong in several places, and I have no idea how long it would take to become a solicitor in 1840's England or what the schooling would look like. Since Renfield's age is listed as 59 in the novel, and Nicholas Hoult is quite a bit younger than that, I assume Renfield was abroad for a lot of years before finally returning to England. His birthdate is one hundred years before the release of the 1931 movie, if you're curious.

Chapter 7: Revival

Now...

Returning to life wasn’t nearly as hard as Dracula might have expected.

If he’d been dismembered anywhere else, it could have been problematic.

But his pieces lay in the grating below the Lobos’ playroom.

And the Lobos were angry.

Bellafrancesca was out on bail within days, and although she kept a low profile, she did make contact with her extended family, both to warn and provide instructions for picking up the pieces of the fallen empire before she strode grandly off to jail with full confidence of being out in minimal years.

And she had every confidence in maintaining her stranglehold over the city from behind bars.

It might be easier without her idiot son drawing so much notice.

Teddy had cousins aplenty who might be chosen as heirs if they showed proper cleverness or ruthlessness.

It was mere months before the first relative availed themself of Bellafrancesca’s playroom.

It would not be the last.

And the blood of rival gang members, of discarded lovers, of honest politicians and their families, all dripped, dripped, dripped slowly down the grate.

And the pieces which were the nigh unkillable vampire slowly knit themselves back together.

It would have been a horrifying sight if anyone had been there to see. The blood hissing through the cement like acid, burrowing down to the mutilated chunks of flesh which absorbed the offerings and burst from their cement cocoons as fleshy butterflies. The lumps gradually pulling themselves together and merging into a formless amoeba. The pieces which had been washed further down the drain whenever the Lobos remembered to hose down their playroom slowly inching their way back uphill, tugged by an unassailable need to return the parts to the whole.

It was a work of years before Dracula’s soul flitted back from its shadowy limbo to inhabit the broken corpse. And years more before he could extend his power outward enough to learn who provided the infrequent sacrifices.

After that, it was a matter of concentrating on rebuilding enough of a mouth to whisper promises of power to a weak mind that was willing to remove the grate long enough for the partial vampire to reach its neck…

He continued to lurk beneath the mansion, surviving off the blood washed down to him and what he could lap from the floors when he dragged himself from concealment. But eventually he was well enough to claim a new familiar who was eager to deliver up the innocent in return for whispered promises of glory.

He kept that one for a few weeks before taking its blood the moment it failed to deliver his dinner.

There would be others to do his bidding. A city full of mewling weaklings who’d give their souls for a taste of power.

So he found the desperate and offered them strength. And once they’d fed him, he drained them as well.

At first, he thought of nothing but the hunger. No concern for taste or quality. Just the need to consume wantonly until the emptiness and pain dissipated long enough to allow rest before starvation enveloped him again.

But at last came the day, as he crouched over the body of the unfortunate wretch who’d been his latest minion, that he realized that the pain was gone. All pieces knit back into the whole or regenerated into something new and strong.

He was at his full power again.

What now?

Of course his mind turned, as it had ceaselessly, to the person who’d caused him this indignity.

The one who should have been unquestionably loyal. Who should never have even considered - even been capable – of such a betrayal.

It took no effort to locate his errant familiar. The bond between them pointed an unerring compass to where Renfield had fled.

It would have been a matter of hours to reach him. To take him by the neck and squeeze until his skull exploded, then patch him back together and repeat the process until Dracula grew tired of breaking his toy and discarded him like the hundreds of inadequate familiars that had come before and would certainly come after.

But there were immediate concerns to delay immediate satisfaction.

Like locating his coffin and finding a suitable hideaway. Somewhere remote in which his pet could leisurely be taught his master’s displeasure.

It was pleasant to return to the abandoned hospital to find his coffin had been returned, securely wrapped in plastic sheeting, and pinned with a note written in halting Romanian telling him where the key was hidden. And even more pleasant to find the key stored beside a lockbox containing the deed to the hospital in his name and instructions for online accessing of his assets.

With the generous assistance of a stressed college student in an all-night coffee shop (who never needed to worry about another term paper after that encounter), Dracula discovered that Renfield had been a busy little servant during his decade off leash.

Assets aplenty with cash to spare. Property all across the country which had to be explored at once. He packed his coffin into a semi-truck, forced a driver to carry him where he wished, and toured several of his new homes.

Excellent choices. Quiet and secluded houses close enough to population centers to provide suitable hunting grounds. One even had the gothic architecture Dracula favored.

Renfield had been a very good boy.

Not that these offerings of money and property would spare him from Dracula’s wrath.

Still, maybe he could let Renfield have his fun for a little longer. Let him stew and sweat as he waited for his master to descend upon him. Give the miscreant time to crawl back where he belonged without compelling Dracula to fetch his escaped thrall.

In the meantime, perhaps Dracula could travel a little on his own.

It wasn’t as if he needed Renfield or anyone else to find pleasure and meaning in life.

Las Vegas was a land of neon that lit up the night and voices raised in songs and sorrows from dusk until dawn. Dracula never lacked for welcome into someone’s hotel room, and storing his coffin was just a matter of finding a casino with the right décor to make it blend in.

He drained the rich of easy money and the poor of their lives. He attended shows with pretty young things on his arm, some of whom he let go with merely a puncture wound and a bit of amnesia of their time with him. He visited the finest hotels and casinos, rubbing elbows with those who lived lives of decadence and debauchery more extreme than his most unhinged feeding frenzy.

What was the point of it all?

He crossed the country.

In New York City was class aplenty. He attended parties in penthouse apartments set higher in the air than he’d ever flown. He walked the great white way with lonely widows on his arm, some of whom weren’t found mysteriously deceased in their apartments days later. He learned the history of this so-called land of opportunity, hearing much of the fate (for good or ill) of those who’d crossed the sea to find new lives here.

Had it been worth it?

He crossed the country once more.

In Los Angeles, he charmed his way amidst Hollywood elite. He attended premiers and watched film royalty preserve their hands in cement. He was commended for his dedication to his ‘look’ and ‘brand’, many a starlet begging him to bite them. Some he obliged. Some even survived.

He attended drug-fueled parties where an extra body at the end of the night was not a surprise. He toured backlots and listened to film buffs list their favorite vampire movies, all secure in the knowledge that the monsters existed only on the silver screen.

Fools.

What was the point of enlightening them?

In the end he stalked away from those cities with an emptiness inside him that blood couldn’t fill.

What was it he sought?

Power? He’d imagined world domination recently in an effort to shake off the decades of lethargy. But what would be the point? Oh, he could declare himself ruler of all and slaughter any who defied him, but the majority would go on with their small lives without ever acknowledging his mastery.

He could hardly rule the whole of it when most of them wouldn’t care.

He vented his thoughts to a few dazed victims before finishing them off, never enjoying any enough to consider keeping them for any length of time.

One being still kept company in his mind, still relentlessly haunted his dreams.

He dreamed of the hunt. Pursuing Renfield through forests or city streets until the familiar was cornered and trapped, facing him with huge and terrified eyes. Sometimes Dracula killed him quickly, ending things with a swift and satisfying crack. Sometimes he played, Renfield’s screams crafted to exquisite music. Sometimes he pinned Renfield over the nearest flat surface and…

He always awoke too soon from those dreams and went hunting for a human in search of a good time. It never ended up being a good time for either of them.

Sometimes Renfield crawled back to him, pitiful and remorseful. A pathetic worm groveling at his feet. Aware that no forgiveness would be forthcoming but creeping back all the same.

Dracula never gave forgiveness as he brought his pet low. As he crushed him under his heel while Renfield licked his feet or wallowed in his own excrement. As he encased him in chains and dismembered him piece by piece, forcing Renfield to sob out his thanks as he was fed his own fingers. As he gorged out his servant’s eyes and set him to impossible tasks, beating him relentlessly for every stumble. As Renfield knelt like a good little whore, undid his trousers, opened his mouth…

…and Dracula always awoke aroused and unsatisfied before anything interesting could take place.

Worst of all were the dreams in which nothing happened. In which he emerged from his coffin to find Renfield cleaning the house or organizing his finances. Head bowed as the good servant offered a glass of rich and red blood. As they moved about their night world in the patterns they’d followed for decades. As they set off into whatever city Dracula had recently visited, only this time with the devoted servant at his heels or loyal companion on his arm. As he swirled a claw through Renfield’s hair and imagined…

…and awoke unsatisfied and hating his familiar with renewed fervor.

He made no new familiars in his time of wandering, and it was damned inconvenient to have to arrange all his travel plans himself, not to mention finding a dry cleaner that was open late and dumping his own corpses.

He could have taken any of the unhappy masses as a new pet. Borne one off somewhere and trained it properly to serve his needs.

But though he sounded out a few in interviews they didn’t realize they were giving, he ultimately gave each potential pet a parting kiss and discarded what was left of them.

After, he decided.

Deal with the traitor first.

Once the old dog was disposed of, then he could think about a puppy.

The prospect of housebreaking a new one didn’t fill him with particular pleasure.

He crossed the country once more.

Vermont was a pretty land. A pleasant chill filtered among the rolling mountains and extensive forests.

Peaceful.

Perhaps that was why Renfield had chosen it when he’d finally stopped running.

Because when Dracula finally approached…

Oh, Renfield. Not again.

The sign outside might not have said anything about a house for the insane, but Dracula saw enough of the unsteady patients as he watched the grounds to see what sort of a place this walled hospital was.

Perhaps kinder than the last. Modern medicine had improved past the old methods of locking the undesirable away until they either cured themselves or removed themselves from the world.

He’d need to find a way inside. Pretend to be someone’s relative or a visiting doctor. Someone who would be welcomed through the door. Once inside, he could wander at leisure. A cloud of mist gliding unseen beneath the doors. Searching until he found…

But, he realized as he darted a reconnaissance circle around the hospital as a cloud of bats, none of those plots appeared necessary.

Because someone had left him a message.

Permanent marker on a windowpane. Awkward block lettering of someone laboriously writing backwards.

‘MAsTER YoU ARE wELCOmE tO ENtER.’

He lurked for a few more nights, testing to see if it was a trap.

Had another protection circle been traced in dust? Were the bulbs replaced with sunlamps or the carpet seeded in garlic?

No. No, the message appeared entirely sincere.

And on a moonlit night, a fine mist flowed through a crack in the open window, pouring into a place which had been prepared for his arrival.

And Dracula stood in all his power and terror, looking down at the crumpled shape of his broken familiar.

Notes:

Oh hey, Dracula finally showed up. To be fair, he's missing for most of the novel too.

Chapter 8: We Shall Play Sane Wits Against Mad Ones

Notes:

Tags have been updated. Things are getting darker.

Before...

Master was near!

Renfield had felt him drawing closer for some time. The ocean had been bridged. The land surmounted. The master drew nigh.

Nearer, nearer. Nearer my god comes to me!

He’d wanted to run to him. Cross the land and throw himself at the count’s feet.

But, no. Too far a distance for him to travel with his paltry collection of flies without being caught.

His mind was sharp enough to know his limitations.

But now…

The superior mind drew ever closer. Coming toward him. Coming here!

Renfield paced his room, snarling dismissively at the attendants and even Dr. Seward.

Pleasing his captor didn’t matter anymore. Not with the master at hand.

He settled in his bed at the order for lights out, his eyes trained upon the window.

Wait. Watch. The master would come…

Servant.

Renfield’s eyes snapped open. “Master,” he whispered.

He surged from his bed, every nerve tingling. He sprang to the window, his desperate eyes scanning the dark garden.

There! On the wall. Standing statue-still. The silhouette he knew so well.

The head turned toward him, and Renfield thought he caught a glimpse of flashing red eyes.

Then they were gone.

Renfield scooped up the nearest jar and slurped down the contents. The instant he felt the surge of power, he ripped out the window bars, flung them aside, and leaped through the yawning hole.

He raced across the garden, the sound of the shouting echoing distantly behind. But that didn’t matter. He reached the wall, found the footholds he’d identified weeks before, gained the top…

He dropped into the cemetery on the other side and took off running on still-tingling feet.

It was only the oaken door of the chapel that halted his headlong dash. The door was shut and bolted. From the inside.

“Master?” he called plaintively. “Master, I’ve come!”

Servant, the voice in his mind hummed.

Renfield pressed against the door. “Master,” he whined.

You’ve failed me.

Renfield recoiled. “I? No… I… I tr-tried to…”

I had to find another to finish preparing for my arrival.

Renfield collapsed to his knees. “I’m sorry! I tried! Truly, Master. I tried so hard. I couldn’t remember. I tried to remember! I tried to keep serving you. I just…”

Your mind is broken. You’re no use to me any longer.

Renfield clawed splinters into the wood. “Please! Forgive me! I can still do your bidding! I’ll do anything! Please, Master. Don’t discard me!”

Hands closed around him. Hands that hauled him to his feet. Hands that dragged him away from Master’s side.

Renfield shrieked and fought, desperately striking the restraining arms away. He screamed for Master to save him. To deliver him. To let him return and serve him. Please! He would do anything!

But he was dragged away. Restrained in strait-waistcoat and chained to the wall to sob for mercy no human hand could deliver.

It’s what you deserve for your ineptitude, the voice growled. I should leave you there until the end of time.

But, the voice resumed after a thoughtful pause, you’re only human. There is only so much isolation you can endure.

Renfield held his breath, not daring to speak or even think a word of hope as his judgement was weighed.

Wait for me, the voice declared at last. I may still have some use for you.

“Thank you, Master,” Renfield whispered into the emptiness. “I shall be patient. Thank you, merciful Master. Thank you.”

And he sank into his bonds to sleep.

---

The padded room was hot and airless.

And dark.

No windows. And the attendants often neglected to light a lamp for hours.

They were equally lax about cleaning. Flies nipped gleefully at Renfield’s unwashed body.

He tried to snap them up, but the chains and strait-waistcoat restricted him too cruelly to move.

Thirst and hunger clawed at him – the meals coming infrequently from the attendants who were wary to release his hands long enough to allow him to eat.

He knew night and day only by the master’s comings and goings. The sleeping presence in the chapel whispered to him of safety and clarity. If he could only reach his master. Cast himself at his feet. Avow his devoted service again.

Master would set his memories in order. Master would show him who he was.

Master would save him.

He fought the restraints day after day until he collapsed with exhaustion. Nothing mattered except escape. Returning to where he belonged.

At night he waited quietly while Master was abroad, breathless with the terror that Master wouldn’t return.

The dawn always brought relief. And renewed anxiety.

He did escape once, fleeing through the open door in a moment that the restraints were off.

Once more he scaled the wall, once more he flung himself against the chapel door and sobbed for another chance to serve.

As the attendants piled on him, he at last heard the long-absent voice.

And it was not pleased with him.

You’re making a scene. I told you to wait and be quiet. If you can’t manage such simple commands, then you really are no use to me.

Renfield sagged limply in his captors' grasp. He followed the attendants meekly back to the padded cell. He held out his arms for the strait-waistcoat and knelt quietly as he was chained.

Dr. Seward spoke puzzled questions down on him, but Renfield didn’t listen.

He’d failed his master once again. He was unworthy of being saved.

---

Renfield sat upon his stool beside the window, his eyes trained upon the chapel roof.

Wait and cause no trouble. That was the master's commanded.

Some days he failed. Some days he couldn’t stop the screams from bubbling up in his throat. Some days the strait-waistcoat clung and squeezed so tight that he felt the breath choked from his lungs, and he writhed in his chains until the attendants pinned him down and bludgeoned him to quiet. Some days he snarled when Dr. Seward came to stand over him. Some days he cowered quietly and answered meekly enough to be allowed a few hours respite from the restraints.

Even now, finally deemed docile enough to be allowed back in his cell, Renfield’s mind veered wildly from elation to have Master so near and despair to know he wasn’t worth saving.

So he did the only thing he could. He sat in vigil upon the chapel whenever Master slept there. Held his flies close at hand in case danger came. In case he should be called to run to Master’s side.

Even if Master no longer spoke to him.

The door swung open behind him, and Renfield whirled, his heart in his throat with the sudden hope that Master had come.

But… no. It was daylight.

Daylight brought his captors, not his savior.

It had been many days since Dr. Seward had visited, and Renfield stared openly at the changed man.

The doctor’s skin was pale and bloodless, his eyes dark and sunken with exhaustion. His hand quivered upon the door, betraying a weakness that sent a flicker of fear through Renfield’s veins.

Something had changed. Something bad.

The doctor crooked a finger, and Renfield rose obediently. He glanced apologetically back at the window, silently begging the master to understand that he only obeyed another to keep from being locked away. He reached for the nearest jar.

“Leave those,” Seward said sharply. “Come.”

With a final backwards glance, Renfield trailed his captor into the hall.

It was midday. The patients were quiet in their cells, the attendants off at their meals. They passed unnoticed up the stairs into Seward’s office.

A servant was there, shuffling papers aside to place a tray on the desk. She smiled at the doctor, her eyes darting to Renfield and back. “I thought I’d bring you something, so you wouldn’t forget to eat again.”

Dr. Seward smiled and thanked her, telling her to close the door on her way out. He took his seat at the desk.

Renfield glanced around for his accustomed chair, but it was absent – shoved into a corner and piled with strewn documents. Uncertain, he stood before the desk, his hands twitching nervously.

Dr. Seward showed no interest in Renfield as he busied himself at the meal.

Renfield tried not to watch hungrily.

The attendants took their revenge frequently for Renfield’s escapes now that Dr. Seward was often absent. Renfield’s bugs had all died while he’d been locked away, leaving him vulnerable and slow to heal. He’d only just been reestablishing his collection when he’d set them all free in a fit of despair that the master would never come for him. He’d not made that mistake again, but he’d been forced to survive off their lives frequently when the attendants deprived him of meals, leaving him to stretch what little he was given between staving off the rumbling of his stomach and feeding his meager menagerie.

Just this morning, Martin had tripped and broken one of the jars. In retaliation for the mess, he’d said Renfield could go without food for the day.

“Are you hungry?” Dr. Seward asked suddenly.

Renfield jumped and realized how desperately he’d been staring. He nodded cautiously.

Seward gestured for him to come around the desk.

Renfield picked his way through the messy office, halting at last before his captor and standing with his hands clasped behind his back.

Dr. Seward resumed eating. “Lucy’s getting better, finally,” he said as if resuming an interrupted talk. “Whatever this cure is Dr. Van Helsing’s employed, it seems to be working. If we could just figure out how she lost so much blood in the first place.”

Renfield stiffened.

Years of listening patiently while Dracula grumbled over politics and peoples long past while making it clear that his servant was there to listen, not participate in the conversation, kept Renfield from drawing attention to himself. Instead, he forced down the rapid pounding of his heart at the mention of blood and tried to school his expression to concerned interest.

“Arthur gave blood first,” Seward went on bitterly. “Inserting himself as if no one else possibly could. Van Helsing and I opened our veins for her just as willingly. But he’s the one she insists saved her. Never mind who’s been staying with her every night, trying to protect her from… whatever keeps getting in. Never mind that I’d give every drop of blood I have if she asked. No, it’s Arthur she cries for when she’s scared. He’s not even there! Off worrying about his estates while she lies in bed so pale and helpless…”

He trailed off, his eyes suddenly raking up Renfield’s body. “Get on your knees.”

Renfield shuddered and stared back like a trapped rabbit.

If it had been Master, he’d have been down before Dracula had even finished the thought. But this… this pretender. This doctor demanding what shouldn’t be permitted…

Dr. Seward gave him a pointed look, his finger tapping meaningfully against the whistle around his neck.

Trembling, Renfield sank to the ground, his hands falling to their accustomed place on his thighs.

Seward looked him over with a hungry air. “Good boy.”

Renfield swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

It didn’t feel at all as it did when Master whispered those words.

This was wrong! He shouldn’t bow for another. He shouldn’t be forced to crawl for his dinner.

Because that’s precisely what this was, he saw, as Seward cut a bit of chicken from his plate and held it out to Renfield on the end of his knife.

Warily, Renfield dipped his head closer and snaked the morsel into his mouth.

He nearly groaned to feel anything touch his neglected stomach.

Dr. Seward smirked at his expression. “Would you like more?”

Renfield nodded.

Dr. Seward quirked an eyebrow. “What do you say?”

Renfield’s nails dug into his leg. “Please?” he hazarded. “Please, Doctor?”

Satisfied, Dr. Seward cut him another morsel.

By the third bite, he’d foregone the knife, slipping the meat, and his fingers, into Renfield’s mouth.

Renfield kept his mouth relaxed and tried not to scream.

Master! I know this is wrong. But he’ll lock me away from you if I refuse. What must I do?

If the bond went the other way, if Renfield was capable of speaking into his master’s mind as Dracula was into his, the sleeping vampire didn’t indicate that he’d heard.

Or cared.

Seward continued his rambling monologue as he fed his tamed lunatic. Lucy’s perfection and beauty. How she looked splayed and helpless in bed. How a less polite gentleman wouldn’t be able to resist.

How unworthy Arthur was of her love.

And as he spoke, he slipped one foot out of his shoe and nudged Renfield’s legs apart. He played his toes along Renfield’s thighs, exploring steadily higher and with increasing pressure.

Renfield’s head swam. He’d been in this position so many times before. Master liked him on his knees. Master liked feeding him. Master liked playing with him.

But those were Master’s prerogatives! Proof of his love and generosity. From anyone else…

His mind continued to swim, struggling to keep the past and present separated. This was not Master, nor was he kneeling for another at Master’s command.

He shouldn’t be here. He should be…

He let out a startled yelp as Seward caught up his hand and placed it over…

Renfield tried to snatch his hand away from the growing bulge, but Seward held him firmly pinned against his stretching trousers.

“It’s alright, Renfield,” he soothed. “A pretty boy like you must have done this before.”

Renfield looked up, trying to see the doctor through the haze of fear. “Please… I don’t want to…” he stammered.

The doctor smiled condescendingly down on him. “Now, Renfield. You’ve supped at my table. Don’t you think you ought to show some gratitude? Haven’t I been kind to you?” His other hand cupped Renfield’s chin, forcing him to stare back into the dark and hungry gaze. “You have beautiful eyes.”

“Th-thank you,” Renfield whimpered in a small voice.

“And under this poor hygiene…” Seward tugged a strand of Renfield’s rarely washed and still too short hair. “…there’s quite a beautiful creature. No matter what kind of foreign whore birthed you, I can see what must have attracted your father to her.”

Renfield’s head was reeling. “M-my mother was English. A noblewoman,” he managed, not feeling enough familial affection for the slur to arouse anger.

He was far too concerned with his own plight to care about insults to his probably deceased parents.

Seward chuckled. “Cling to your delusions. Your fantasies are what make you so intriguing.” He released Renfield’s chin and fumbled to undo the buttons on his trousers. “But there’s no need for telling your stories right now.”

Renfield wrenched his hand free and tumbled backwards onto his elbows. He crab-crawled away, stumbling over a mound of documents.

“Renfield,” the doctor scolded gently without moving from his seat. “There’s no need for all this fussing. I’ve been kind to you, haven’t I? You’ve benefitted from my attention. Shouldn’t you thank me for all I’ve done?” He waited a beat, then spoke in the same coaxing tone. “Should I tell the attendants you’re being unmanageable? Do you want to go back to the padded room?”

“No!” Renfield shot up to his knees, raising pleading hands in surrender. “Not the strait-waistcoat! Please! I can’t bear it!”

He saw too late the look of satisfaction slither over the doctor’s face.

“Come here.” Seward beckoned with a commanding hand. “This will taste much better than those damned bugs.”

Renfield glanced helplessly around the room, finding himself with no recourse but to crawl forward and position himself between the doctor’s legs. He flinched at the hand which clamped tightly around the back of his neck and watched with trembling horror as Seward worked himself to full hardness.

“I deserve this,” Seward growled, his voice low and dark, his eyes no longer seeing Renfield. “Everything I’ve given up. All the time and money and attention and my own blood. What’s enough to make her see that I’m the one who loves her? That she belongs with me? Haven’t I done everything she’s asked? Don’t I deserve…?”

Renfield huddled in frozen terror, unresisting as the doctor’s thumb pried his jaws open.

Just do what he wants. Give him what he wants. It’ll be over quickly. He’ll be pleased. He’ll let me go back to my cell. I’ll be able to watch over Master again.

Master!

The name sent an electric jolt through him.

He couldn’t do this! This body wasn’t his! He couldn’t allow Master’s property to be violated…

Without hesitation, he snatched the knife from the table's edge. Seward lunged to retrieve it, and Renfield lashed out in warning, blood blossoming along Seward's wrist as the blade sliced into his skin.

There was a bellow followed by a blur, and Renfield toppled over, only feeling the sting of the fist he’d taken to the face as he landed.

Dr. Seward was on him at once, kicking relentlessly and stomping on his hand until Renfield released the knife. Renfield curled into a ball, his arms wrapped over his head, trying to protect what he could as the doctor vented his fury and the remainder of his lust. The world swam into the past…

…the peasants surrounded him, the blows of their rakes bludgeoning him from every side as he fought to break free of the circle…

…the man wrapped his hands around Renfield’s neck, choking him desperately while Renfield held him down and tried to remember that he’d been ordered to bring this one back alive…

…the woman slammed him against the wall, her tongue darting across her fangs and as she lunged for his neck while Renfield distantly heard her sisters keeping Master occupied…

…the horse reared and trampled down on him before he could escape its hooves. He clung to the bridle, trying to hold it anchored as Master grappled with the rider…

…he lay on the ground, too many bones shattered to move, whimpering apologies as Master stood above him, grumbling that he’d had one job. And then that beautiful healing blood dripping down…

Blood!

Renfield’s eyes snapped open.

His face lay in a smear of blood, and whether it was his or someone else’s, he couldn’t guess.

Master’s? Had Master come?

He snaked out his tongue, lapping hopefully at the floorboards.

“…I don’t know how he got loose. He came in here, grabbed the knife, and came at me.”

“We’re so sorry, Doctor. We’ll see he’s watched constantly from now on.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that. The door probably wasn’t fastened when he was fed. Be more careful, and I’m sure we’ll have no further trouble.”

“Of course, Doctor. Should we put him back in his cell?”

Renfield cast an eye upward at the blurry figures standing too close to his face. He tried to pick out the Dr. Seward-shaped blur and gave him a pleading look.

“No, I think a reprimand is in order.” The doctor crouched down, his eyes burning coldly. “A few days in the strait-waistcoat will discourage further aggression. Won’t it?”

Renfield stared back, barely certain of what was happening. Had he escaped? Attacked the doctor? Was that what had happened?

Or did he remember something else?

He was hauled away before he could think. The attendants were generous with fists and batons as they strapped him down despite Renfield staying meekly limp.

Alone in the dark, he lay in a pool of vomit, despair settling as heavily over him as the restraints.

Locked away again. Causing trouble again. Nearly violated by another.

Master would never want him now.

Notes:

I was going to skip the part in the book where Renfield randomly stabs Dr. Seward since it's one of those weird moments that just happens without anyone ever asking questions like, "What kind of mental institution is this that lets the patients wander unsupervised with knives?" and "Why is Seward leaving Mina unattended with Renfield despite being aware that he has stabby tendencies?" But then it occurred to me that there's no reason Seward couldn't be leaving some details out of his journals. And that opened up some lovely opportunities for pain.

And otherwise this chapter would have turned into me ranting about everything that doesn't make sense about the events leading to Lucy's turning, and nobody needed to see that.

Chapter 9: Remains

Now...

Dracula had lived a long time.

Far longer than those foolish stories claimed.

All that linking of him to someone pretentiously calling himself ‘The Impaler’… a mere child compared to the centuries he had lived.

His origins… he chose not to think about them. Chose to bury the past too deep for anyone to find if they dared probe the dark pit which was his mind. Chose to live in this time and place with little thought for past or future.

Humanity had slaughtered most of the predators in their midst, the monsters in the dark.

But they’d never been able to stop him.

Whatever name they gave him, whatever shape they imagined…

…he remained as the prickle at the back of their neck when they gazed into the abyss.

Dracula. A convenient name from a bygone age. A name he would have discarded – and had discarded occasionally to walk unknown among the sheep - but it amused him to retain the name the humans so gleefully branded upon their silver screens. The name they considered defanged and reduced to fantasy.

So they believed until his teeth closed around their jugulars.

There had been times in which he’d been worshipped as a god – peoples living and dying in service to his name, delivering their captive enemies before his altar. Other times he’d been the shadow in the city streets, a roving horror that no one ever saw… just the corpses scattered in his wake.

He’d had companions. Creatures he’d made like himself to hunt the night with him. Some, the immortal bloodsuckers who darted wraith-like through the darkness. Some, the deadly shapeshifters who slowly left their humanity behind to become creatures more twisted and horrifying than nature could engender.

And then there had been the familiars.

Useful slaves. Capable of operating in daylight hours and interacting with humanity without triggering that hindbrain scream of danger! that the vampire excited. Trampling through protective wards and into holy places to fight those who would harm their masters.

Warm, fragile things to bring him amusement in the night.

No icy vampire bride could compare the writhing fear and ecstasy of a hot-blooded familiar pinned beneath his claws.

He’d created scores of them, usually one at a time, although it was sometimes entertaining to watch a few scrabble for supremacy. Some lasted days or months before he’d exhausted their usefulness. Some he kept longer.

But sooner or later, they died as humans inevitably did.

Some were lost in battle or to hunters – their bodies too dismembered for restoration without more effort than he cared to expend. Some fell to accidents. A few had turned on him, seeking to free themselves from their bonds by the vampire’s demise. Another few had grown power-hungry, convinced that the master's death would provide ultimate strength.

He'd always made those deaths slow and agonizing.

Mostly, he’d grown bored and snapped their necks or drained them dry, allowing them one last service of providing their master’s daily bread. No warning. Just calling them to kneel and doing as he did to all the lambs led before him for slaughter. They died with that look of blind devotion never leaving their eyes.

Some he’d felt a half-hearted fondness for which had granted them a decade or two more than he might have otherwise tolerated their blundering. Most were just an annoyance to be endured until a better caliber of servant came along.

He’d never gotten attached to any of them.

Which didn’t explain why Renfield still lived.

Dracula looked down at the remains of his servant and sighed.

He lay curled in a shivering ball on a scrap of rug, discarded blankets leading in a tumbled trail from the bed. A little wire cage was clutched to his chest – the sort given to children for catching fireflies. From within came the occasional buzz of a restless fly.

Rake thin and ghastly pale. Sunken eyes ringed in sleepless bruising. Unwashed hair falling in long and patchy tangles. Scratches – the self-inflicted sort – marring every limb.

His mind, when Dracula poked at it, was a bottomless whirlwind of broken memories and unanswered prayers.

There was very little left of the man who had been Renfield.

Killing him now would be a strike of mercy. There wasn’t even enough here to torture.

There might not ever be again.

Familiars weren’t meant to stray long from their master’s side. From the moment of their binding, their entire purpose was to serve their creators. Without orders, they lost themselves. Without the closeness of their masters, mind and body began to decay.

Renfield had known this. He’d succumbed to the madness before and crawled his way out with sheer desperation to serve. He had no reason to expect this second time to be any different.

And yet… here they were again.

The familiar who should have died nearly a hundred and fifty years before. The familiar whose blunderings throughout the decades should have led to him being discarded a thousand times.

And yet, Dracula had kept him far longer than any of his predecessors. Longer than most of the vampire companions who’d generally bored Dracula faster than his pets.

And he still couldn’t explain why.

Renfield had been something different at the start. After a series of bitter veterans of the Napoleonic and Crimean Wars and hardened hill bandits, the meek Englishman who’d never shot anything larger than a rabbit (and probably wept to do so) had been a novelty of innocence.

So wide-eyed and out of his depths. So starved for any whisper of belonging and praise. A whipped puppy already, easily broken down and remade as the creature Dracula wished him to be.

He’d been so pliant. An entertaining companion (so blushing in bed), a devoted servant. Accepting every blow and cruelty as his just dues. A damaged creature who always crawled back for more.

Eventually, he’d simply become a habit, a fixture as necessary and unconsidered as Dracula’s coffin.

Dracula had felt Renfield drifting away long before they’d reached New Orleans. The familiar’s dedication had never faltered, but he’d been reluctantly going through the motions for quite a while. That he’d stopped to put on his robe and slippers before joining Dracula that last time the hunters attacked had been the final evidence that Renfield was lacking passion even before he’d seen that look of hesitation as Dracula hung helpless in the protection circle.

The curtain had been an accident. Dracula had thought a simple crossbolt wound would suffice when he’d gone after the priest and left the hunter armed and with an inviting target. Damned fool had had to go and aim high.

He hadn’t been pleased with how injured it had left him, but at least Renfield had finally scrambled to provide assistance, and Dracula had basked smugly in his servant’s arms.

Nothing like a few weeks of dedicated care and feeding to remind the servant of where his priorities should lie.

Except… it hadn’t worked.

Subpar meals, unattended for lengthening stretches, reluctant service provided alongside a cacophony of whines about wanting more from life.

And then he’d tracked Renfield down… to a space he’d created as his own. His appearance neater than it had been in years. Dressed in brighter colors than Dracula had ever seen on him. He’d looked relaxed. Happy.

Alive.

And although he wasn’t opposed to seeing his familiar smile, he had strong objections to Renfield having found happiness from anything not bestowed by his master’s benevolent hand.

A lesson had been in order.

He’d thought killing the humans who’d led his pet astray would remind Renfield that his purpose began and ended at Dracula’s feet. He’d thought creating a few new familiars would remind Renfield that he was expendable and survived only on his master’s sufferance. He’d certainly thought proving his little police friend was just as ready to bow as any other human would have Renfield crawling back where he belonged.

Instead…

He’d expected Renfield to kill Tedward and the others, and Renfield certainly had. But not with any jealousy or desperation to prove his worth. No, there’d been only sorrow in Renfield’s mind when Dracula had slipped inside it. Sorrow at the lives given up to the slaughter before they could learn to use their new powers against someone who’d perfected them decades before. Sorrow at what he had to do before they harmed others.

And that cop had turned out to be too stubborn to keep enthralled. A pity. It would have been entertaining to see how long it took her morals to crumble.

So that was how it had ended – staring at one another from opposite sides of the ring of blue flames. Dracula shouting defiances rather than trying to talk Renfield back around to his side. There hadn’t been a point in that moment. For his servant’s attention was finally focused upon him. Smiling at him. Stepping forward with quivering eagerness to split his skull with a sledgehammer.

Clearly they’d both needed some time apart to reassess their priorities.

And look where it had landed them.

With a huff, Dracula turned away and paced the confines of the small room.

Nicer than the last asylum, though still a cell. They’d allowed Renfield to keep a few personal possessions this time.

Testaments to the life he’d dared try to build alone.

A few articles of clothing that didn’t resemble the pale hospital gown of the man on the floor. Pleasantly colored sweaters of thick wool. A well-made jacket that looked as if it had seen a few adventures… the sort that didn’t leave bloodstains.

Some textbooks relating to specific law fields. And…

Taped carefully to the wall. Photographs.

Renfield and that infuriating cop with arms slung around each other, a Mardi Gras float in the background.

Renfield and a crowd of scruffy humans gathered around a birthday cake on which ‘Happy Birthday Mark’ was scrawled in green icing.

Renfield standing on a mountain ridge with several other humans dressed for hiking.

Renfield crouched down to hold out a cockroach to a small child.

Renfield and two women at a concert.

Renfield looking thoroughly embarrassed as a man in a suit handed him an ‘Employee of the Month’ plaque.

An aged and tattered photo of a woman and child.

It wasn’t the original. It might not have even been his actual family. Dracula had watched Renfield carry it around like a talisman for years, having it copied and restored each time the technology improved.

The only link the familiar carried of his past life.

Dracula wondered if Renfield remembered anything about those people besides a lingering certainty that they’d once existed.

He’d sacrificed everything else to his master’s service.

There was a photo of himself with Renfield amidst the others, not that anyone would realize what it was. They might simply wonder why the photo was off centered, a single man in an outdated suit standing to the side as if the photographer had left room for a second person. Careful observations might have noticed that the fabric on Renfield’s arm bunched oddly, as if someone was gripping hard to keep him from edging out of frame.

There had been no harm in allowing the picture to be taken – the photographer hadn’t lived to develop it, though apparently Renfield had.

What a funny, sentimental creature he was.

Dracula turned away, a sludge of jealousy churning through his innards.

“Master,” he heard Renfield whimper.

Dracula brushed against the troubled mind, confirming that his familiar still slept and would continue to sleep until Dracula permitted him consciousness. But even in sleep, the thrall reached out, probably alerted by Dracula’s turbulent thoughts.

Cried out for his master.

For the only one who could restore purpose and clarity to his life.

Or destroy him.

Which would it be?

Dracula put an experimental shoe over the man’s neck, pressing down and feeling very little satisfaction in listening to Renfield gurgle.

This wouldn’t be any fun if Renfield wasn’t awake, screaming, and fully aware of his sins.

If he was even capable of such awareness.

Why was he dithering? He’d killed for far lesser crimes without hesitation. He could either draw this out - a pleasure Renfield had effectively ruined with his own stupidity - or slaughter the familiar quickly in acknowledgement of decades of devoted service.

Or fly away and leave Renfield to deteriorate to a catatonic lump.

It didn’t appear he had far to go.

“Why?” Dracula rumbled, still grinding hard enough to make his servant thrash feebly. “You knew what would happen. Was it really so terrible serving me? All these years, and this seemed the best alternative?” He flattened the straining throat until the struggles subsided, and the body went limp. Then he lifted his foot, watching impassively as Renfield’s lungs hacked themselves back to working order. Once the flailing stilled, Dracula pressed his foot down once more and watched the choking resume.

This wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as it should have been.

“You should have come back to me. You should have been the one to revive me once your little temper tantrum was over. You should have come crawling back instead of making me come to fetch you. You certainly should have returned before you’d made yourself completely useless.”

Renfield had no answer besides gasping and flopping like a beached fish.

“Was this how you thought you’d escape me? Mutilate your mind until I’d kill you for good?” He squatted down, seizing Renfield by the hair and wrenching his head back. “Fool. Did you really think I’d ever let you escape me? Did you really think I’d ever be done with you?”

Blood frothed out of Renfield’s mouth, staining his pale skin in glistening pink.

Dracula dropped him and paced away in disgust.

He needed to be done with this. Just kill the traitor and wipe him from his mind. Maybe it wasn’t as satisfying as torture, but the end would be the same – another soul tossed down to that grey and shadowy place where the shades of his familiars lingered to serve him in the afterlife should he ever choose Hell over Earth. The faithful flock there would certainly punish one who’d so thoroughly betrayed his vows.

Except… except for the bewildering fact that this lost lamb had never stopped serving. Had continued to provide financially for the count’s quality of life. Had secured and protected his possessions while he’d been indisposed. Had provided ample hideaways across the country. Had even marked a selection of possible future victims or slaves in vampire blood.

Why? Why would Renfield continue to serve while continuing to flee? Why offer welcome for Dracula’s inevitable coming but fail to preemptively return to his master’s feet? Why behave as if he expected this outcome while still pretending he had a chance at another life?

It made no sense and probably hadn’t made sense to Renfield either considering the state he was in now. He’d probably been hanging on by threads for years, chasing half-remembered logic without being certain what outcome he sought.

It didn’t matter. The thrall had betrayed him and failed to show remorse. Dracula had given him years to surrender himself. Now it was too late.

Dispose of him and be done with it. Dispose of him, and forget him. You don’t need him. There are millions of weaklings who can serve you. Just because this one knows precisely how you wish to be served. Just because this one has been by your side all these years and never wavered no matter how you treated him. Just because…

A furious pounding on the wall wrenched Dracula from his train of thoughts. An irritable voice from the next cell complaining of the noise. Telling him to shut up and go to bed.

Dracula grinned. The grin which showed all his teeth.

When he departed, the only thing left behind were Renfield’s flies... feasting on the remains.

Notes:

I have rewritten this chapter so many times that I can no longer remember what the issue was that I was trying to fix. It's 3am as I finally code this. Why have I stayed up so late stewing over a fic? I'm sure I'll remember what the problem was right after I post it.

Chapter 10: Enter Freely and of Your Own Will

Before…

Renfield dreamed of the past…

---

---

“What’s this place? Trans… Transiv…?”

“Transylvania. Just like it’s spelled. Sylvan for… woods and nature. And trans… transitioning. Through the Woods. Everyone knows that.”

“How would anyone know that? How would you know that?”

“I just do.”

“Liar. Whatever this trans-vanny place is, there’s no chance we’re sending an agent to a Count… God, that’s a damned foreign name. Draky something. We’re not sending an agent there.”

“Nor anyone else. I heard at the club that a few offices have gotten letters like this. Imagine some foreign slob claiming to be nobility and asking someone to come all that way to the God-forgotten end of the Earth to discuss buying property without any idea how things are done. It’s fraud all through. What idiot would go all that way on a pipe dream of a sale?”

“I could go,” a soft voice said.

Every eye in the room - from those of the apprentices who technically ranked below him despite their behavior, to the two owners of the firm - swung to stare incredulously at Robert.

From where he sat at the most battered desk in the coldest corner behind stacks of other people’s work that was constantly heaped onto him, Robert blushed and ducked his head.

“You?” the elder Marley sneered.

“It’s just… you said I needed to find a client… a good client… before you’d g-give me a raise…” Robert clenched his fists and tried to remember what his wife had screamed at him the last time the subject of his minuscule salary had come up. “M-maybe I could… If it’s real… Foreign nobility? That might be worth…”

The laughter of the Marley brothers drowned out any further stammering.

Robert kept his head down as he was teased and badgered for the remainder of the day.

The problem - he’d realized too late - was that from the start of his apprenticeship, it had been discovered that Robert would do any job and do it well, no matter how tedious, saving the cost of cleaner, file clerk, errand boy, copier, and all manner of drudging employees. Despite being promoted from apprentice to clerk and theoretically to solicitor, Robert couldn’t seem to ascend above doing all the tasks no one else wanted to do nor could he put himself forward enough to ever be given clients, fair wages, reasonable working hours, a decent desk… or even a grudging word of praise for his toils.

It had been bad enough trying to support a wife on a salary barely designed to keep a bachelor out of the poor house. With a growing child at home, Robert worked desperately long hours, trying to please his exacting bosses… and seemed to get nothing for his pains but disdain from them and outrage from a wife who’d married him for his family name and discovered too late that the name didn’t mean much when it was attached to meek and cowering Robert.

The workday concluded, and everyone else prepared to go, leaving whatever they hadn’t finished on Robert’s desk.

At least he’d be free of their insults for the remainder of the evening.

“You’ll have to pay your own way,” the younger Marley said as he paused at the door.

“Sir?” Robert looked up blankly.

“For your trip. You’ll have to pay your own expenses. We can’t waste the firm’s valuable funds on a fool’s errand.”

“Y-you mean… I can go? Try to find th-the count?”

“Absolutely, Robbie. What sort of employers would we be if we didn’t give you opportunities to achieve your dreams?”

Robert’s heart thumped too loudly with elation to mind the brothers’ laughter.

---

Every staggering step seemed to cover a shorter distance than the last. Every footfall found new rocks to slice his tattered shoes and jar his throbbing ankles.

How much further could he go on?

Robert had left London carrying what money he’d been able to beg and borrow, waving farewell to his wife with assurances that he’d return with a client that would please his employers. That he’d be a full partner with a proper salary by year’s end. That their troubles would soon be over.

How long ago had that been?

Sea voyage had given way to overland wandering - trains and carriages as long as he could afford it, then on foot as his purse grew light. Grimly he struggled onward towards a vague splotch on a map and a country he’d never heard of before. A country sandwiched between warring empires and enduring on the strength of its mountains.

Robert had never even seen mountains. He’d never even left England.

English had become useless the further he went. His smattering of German and French had lasted him longer, his vocabulary doubling along the way from pitiful to poor, which at least allowed him to sometimes beg a ride or purchase the cheapest available food.

Too soon he'd been far out of his depths, lost geographically and linguistically. Desperate enough to pawn nearly everything he owned right down to his spare clothes.

The peasants had taken pity on the lost foreigner – the ones who hadn’t robbed him blind. He’d survive on the charity of grandmothers who’d fed him if he entertained them with English songs and farmers who begrudged him rides in their carts in return for assisting with loading or unloading.

The kindness of strangers was the only thing that had kept him from being utterly reduced to rags.

But it was a near thing.

In the last village he’d found an innkeeper who’d spoken enough French to provide some sense of direction and translate the chattering of the locals.

Yes, some of them had heard of the Dracula family. Old family. Very old. Suspicious reputation. Their castle was further in the mountains. Near a village annihilated under mysterious circumstances. The locals didn’t like to linger there. The count was a strange man. Servants never stayed long. Some who went there in search of employment were never seen again.

Robert thanked the locals for their warnings but pressed onward resolutely.

What else could he do?

The inn had been two days before, and there’d been little food or shelter since then. His coins and valuables were long gone. The peasants eyed him suspiciously and drew away, many making a sign against evil and slamming their doors at the first mention of Count Dracula’s name, leaving Robert stumbling into the unknown and facing the very real possibility of losing himself in the mountains with no one but the wolves ever finding his body.

He'd heard the howls as he huddled beneath a rocky outcropping in the night, sleeping little and shivering much, praying that the predators continued to explore in the opposite direction from his sorry self.

Keep going, he chanted as he trudged mechanically, following a trail that he hoped was a road. There’s nothing else you can do.

And then, late in the day, when lying down and waiting for the wolves seemed the only recourse against starvation, he saw a distant wall amidst the crags.

With a grateful sob, he staggered onward, his eyes riveted upon that faraway salvation.

At last he came in sight of the castle gates. By then he was half crawling on hands and knees, too spent to even stand upright. But there it was. A real and solid promise of sanctuary. Of hope. Of…

…locked.

He fell against the gate’s iron bars, shaking them weakly as he cried out in a quavering voice.

Please! Please, someone hear me! Please, someone come. Anyone…

But the castle remained silent. If anyone could hear his cries, they’d turned away.

Robert sank to the ground, a trembling hand clutched around a bar as if begging it for mercy.

He’d traveled thousands of miles, crossed land and sea, spent every penny he had, worn through possessions and shoes, walked until he couldn’t stand, and…

…he was going to die here.

The certainty came sick and horrible to his mind. Exhausted and starving, he couldn’t go back, even if he could find his way. No one would help him if they found him now.

He never should have come. They’d been right at the office. He’d followed a rumor, a dream. And it had vanished into hopeless mist.

There was no Dracula. The castle was deserted.

Robert had lost.

He buried his face in his arms and wept.

---

“Cine eşti tu? Ce faci aici?”

Robert jolted awake, responding with a moan of pain as he tried to move and found his body too exhausted to respond.

From the evening gloom, a dim figure loomed over him. Robert struggled to make out anything besides a red gleam. “Please,” he whimpered, trying once more to rise. “I can’t…”

Strong and cold hands lifted him effortlessly to his feet. “English?” the voice in the shadows asked cautiously.

“Y-yes,” Robert panted, swaying weakly and gripping blindly at the arm which held him steady. “Please. I’m… I’m looking for Count Dracula.”

“You have found him,” the voice replied slowly, his accent thick and his English so bookish as to be difficult to decipher.

“You, Sir?” Robert squinted hopefully. “You sent the letter?”

“Letter?”

“F-for a solicitor. I’m… that is… I work for Marley and Marley’s. London, Sir.”

A grin of very white teeth sparked from the shadows. “I send many letters. No answers. You came? Alone? Brave boy. See if I am real, yes?”

“Yes, Sir. And to offer my services. If-if you still need them.”

The smile increased. “I can make much use of you, Mr…?”

“Robert Montague Renfield.”

The man shook his head. “Too much. My English…” He made a helpless gesture. “Ren… Renfield, yes?”

“Yes, Sir,” Robert agreed, blushing.

“You are embarrassed?”

Robert ducked his head. “Everyone just calls me Robert. Or Robbie. I’m not important enough for…”

“You are my guest. You are important.” The count scrutinized him closely. “You hunger? You walk far this day?” His hand moved to Robert’s shoulder and gently nudged him toward the now-open gates. “Come inside. Be welcome. You will have food and rest. Tomorrow, we see what use you may be to me.”

---

---

Servant.

Renfield bolted from sleep and from his bed before his mind properly awoke. “Master!” he cried out eagerly.

Silence, the voice cautioned. If your keepers come, I’ll leave you.

Renfield whimpered and sank to his knees before the window.

He couldn’t see Dracula anywhere in the darkness, but that wasn’t unusual. Distance was nothing to his great and powerful Master. And Master was close enough to hear Renfield’s voice, even if he chose not to allow his servant the sight of him.

I have a task for you.

Renfield bobbed his head emphatically.

His master’s presence grew heavier in his mind, that powerful entity settling himself behind Renfield’s eyes.

Renfield clutched the windowsill with trembling hands and bit down on his tongue to suppress a cry.

It hurt when Master overlaid himself so heavily into Renfield’s mind. When he used Renfield’s eyes and body as his own.

It hurt… and Renfield loved it so.

Being so close and so used by Master…

There was no feeling like it.

Get out of this room. Quietly.

Renfield picked up the nearest jar and tipped the sleeping bodies into his mouth. Energized, he approached the locked door.

It wasn’t as secure as it appeared. He’d been working on it for some time – chipping through the wood until he could reach the bolt on the other side. He’d gotten out this way before just to see if he could, being careful never to be seen. Now he inched his fingers through the hole and drew back the bolt.

With a flash of caution, he ran back to his bed and flung the blanket over a fluff-up pillow to provide the vague shape of a sleeping body.

Hopefully enough to fool the night guard.

Stepping into the hall, he bolted the door behind him and awaited further orders.

At Dracula’s urging, he ran on tiptoes up the stairs to Dr. Seward’s study.

Search the room. See what you can learn about my enemies.

Enemies? Dr. Seward? How could the doctor ever presume to match skills with Renfield’s mighty master? What could he have done to earn such a title?

It wasn’t for Renfield’s sake, he well knew. He was unimportant. Expendable. That Dracula was giving him another chance to show his devotion was far more than he deserved.

He lit a lamp, trusting that the night guards were unlikely to stray from patrolling the wards and that they’d assume Dr. Seward was working late if they did spot the light.

The first few papers he rifled through were hospital notes. The other patients mostly, the ones Dr. Seward seemed to neglect even more than Renfield.

They must have been less fun to bait and torment.

He moved on to what lay beside a typewriter he couldn’t recall having seen before.

And this… this was far more interesting.

Shipping manifestos and newspaper clippings about a wolf escape. Lengthy transcripts from Dr. Seward’s journal and his attempt to save the life of the girl Lucy. These were unfinished, currently halting months before with Lucy still clinging to life but losing blood in the night…

Renfield broke off reading with a lurch of alarm, but Dracula drove him back, ordering him to examine yet another bundle of papers.

Another diary. A travel log.

Of one Jonathan Harker.

A solicitor. Summoned to Transylvania. By a mysterious count…

Renfield couldn’t suppress the shriek of fury, and only his master’s harsh threats kept him from savaging the papers before him.

Master had found another! Master had replaced him!

Renfield truly had been deemed worthless and unworthy of salvation.

Stop this foolishness, his master snarled with wrath enough to drive Renfield to his knees. I have not replaced you. Yet. Get up and do as you’re told unless you wish to prove yourself as useless as you’ve appeared as of late.

Renfield obeyed, dutifully lowering his eyes to the entries though it made his insides churn to read how the count had dined and conversed with another. How he’d protected his new plaything from the hungry women. How he’d teased information and desires from Harker until he’d had everything he needed.

And then…

Renfield’s heart leaped to learn that the count had abandoned Harker to the mercies of the brides.

No, Dracula had not taken a new familiar. But if Harker had proved clever enough to escape and return here…

…maybe Dracula still intended to make a pet out of him.

Or of another.

That’s enough. Return to your cell before you’re missed.

Renfield obeyed, feeling his master’s presence retreat as he padded down the halls.

Continue to wait. I will have further need of you soon.

Alone in his mind and alone in his room, Renfield hugged his knees to his chest and stared into the night.

He’d known, of course he’d known, that he’d never be the sole focus of his master’s attention.

And of course that was as it should be.

The servant existed to serve the master’s whims. It was not for the master to cater to the servant’s needs.

There’d been the women in Transylvania. But Master had been bored with them. Even the most recent.

He’d wanted a new land to explore. New creatures to terrorize and conquer.

So he’d come to England. And he’d created a first like him.

And if Dr. Seward’s red-rimmed eyes and rumpled clothes were any indication, Ms. Lucy belonged neither to the world of the living nor the undead any longer.

Dracula had been thwarted.

And he was never kind once he’d been thwarted.

He would come for those who’d stopped him. These doctors – Seward and Van Helsing and perhaps the men who’d given their blood to prolong Ms. Lucy’s life.

And Jonathan Harker who’d escaped when he was meant to die.

And perhaps Mrs. Harker as well, if only because her husband spoke so often and so passionately of her.

Dracula was a jealous god. His pets were not meant to have any other idols besides him.

Renfield’s family lay across the channel, and he hoped far from his master’s mind. He tried to think about them as little as possible, best to let his master forget his familiar had any other interests besides himself.

And… mostly… Renfield didn’t have any interests besides Dracula.

He’d been his master’s creature for so long. It was hard to remember anything besides Dracula’s happiness mattering to him.

Especially now. Especially when these stretches of lucid thought only lasted until the flies’ lifeforces ran out, and sometimes even that wasn’t enough to hold the world into shape.

The shape of the world was Dracula. All else was splintered into dust. All else was as unimportant as scattered grains of sand.

But he’d been another person once. A person he could still sometimes remember. A person - like the people in the journals who’d cared about the woman Dracula had chosen. Who’d cared about each other.

Whose days were certainly numbered now that Dracula had branded them as enemies. Still, they were safe after dark so long as they remained insi…

Oh.

Oh, that was the use Master had for him.

Renfield slid to the floor and sat against his bed, his head falling back to the loll against the mattress.

Master would ask for welcome, and Renfield would open the window and bid him enter.

Of course he would. What else would he do?

And if Master slaughtered them all, or turned the lot to his thrall, who was Renfield to stand against the might of a god?

The shape of the world was the master, and no one else had given Renfield reason to feel loyalty to them over the one who’d claimed his soul.

He’d given so many lives to his master’s pleasure already. What were six more?

So why did the thought of it make his insides churn and threaten to disgorge what was left of the bugs?

Notes:

I got my Romanian off Google Translate, so I apologize if it's ridiculous. Actually, I'm not sure what language Dracula would be speaking at this moment in history.

The characters speculating over the meaning of Transylvania was meant to be a joke, but then I looked it up and it DOES mean "On the other side of the forest", so I guess I remember more from Latin class than I thought.

I realize they're not solicitors, but once I imagined these guys as Renfield's bosses, the image wouldn't go away.

Rail travel wasn't well connected until another twenty years after this, which is why Jonathan Harker's trip went much faster than Renfield's. He really should have gone by boat, but he was probably worried about cost and also had no idea how far away Transylvania was. Also it's just better for Renfield to stay off boats, as we can all agree.

Dracula has been away from his Transylvanian castle until recently which is why the locals are only suspicious, not outright terrified. I think he's spent most of his time in Russia and the Ottoman Empire lately, so he never thought he'd need English until word got around about England's sneaky takeover of India. Then he decided he'd probably better add that to his linguistic collection.

Does this format work for you guys for flashbacks within flashbacks? There's going to be more because once I started writing Dracula and Renfield's meet-cute, I couldn't stop. If there's another way to comfortably designate when we're hopping around in history, I'm happy for suggestions.

Chapter 11: Purify

Now…

His eyes were open.

They’d been open for a while, he thought.

But now his mind had stirred from wherever it generally hid these days to realize that this ceiling was unfamiliar.

He stared at the whirls in the drywall, making shapes in his mind of flowers and sheep and dismembered corpses. A lazy exercise in creativity which sometimes got his synapses firing enough to make two plus two equal four.

And it eventually registered that in this case two plus two equaled he wasn’t in his room anymore.

He told his body to sit up and look around, but his eyes remained fastened on the ceiling and his body remained limp, declining to acknowledge any command of his mind.

Only his heart began to thump a rapid danger-danger-danger tempo.

Unfamiliar room. Paralyzed. Mind working, albeit sluggishly, but more than it had in… probably years at this point.

Which meant…

“Ah. You’re finally awake.”

The voice jolted sensations of unbridled elation and abject terror to the depths of Renfield’s soul. The voice he’d longed and dreaded to hear for… too long.

The voice he needed with more intensity than oxygen.

A hand slid beneath his head and raised it a few inches. A glass was pressed to his lips.

“Drink,” Master ordered, and the body which had refused Renfield’s commands responded at once.

He gulped gratefully at the orange juice, only now feeling the dryness of dehydration.

And the dizziness of blood loss.

How much had Master taken?

Enough at least to bind Renfield entirely in his thrall.

As he finished the glass, Master’s face finally dipped into focus. He looked healthy – his face full and young, the closest it came to being mistaken for human. His expression was a blank, nor did any emotions stray across their bond.

Renfield’s head was lowered back to the pillow beneath him as Master carefully peeled back his eyelid and scrutinized him closely. “You are in there, aren’t you?”

Renfield tried to flutter his eyelids, but even that seemed more than the paralysis would allow.

Only his heartbeat responded by accelerating to a rabbit-fast level of terror.

Attracted by the thumping, Dracula’s hand strayed lower, his palm coming to rest over Renfield’s galloping heart. “You’re afraid,” he observed. His fingers curled, five talons piercing through the hospital gown and into Renfield’s skin.

Blood beaded to the surface, staining the gown in a ring of scarlet dots which quivered to the beat of Renfield’s thundering heart.

Dracula studied him for a moment, then undid the gown and tossed it aside, leaving Renfield exposed before his master’s devouring gaze.

Fingertips grazed down his chin, two thumbs pausing to press against his throat. Renfield’s pulse hammered in response, a siren call that he still lived.

Still could die.

The fingers trailed down his neck following the descend of his jugular veins. They mapped over his prominent ribs, moving slow as if counting each one.

At his jutting hip bones, the hands halted, and Renfield heard a long sigh.

“Look what you do to yourself without me.”

Renfield felt tears well in eyes. And whether brought by terror or shame, he couldn’t say.

The hands retreated, and Renfield would have screamed for their return if he’d been capable of sound.

The world spun, the emptiness threatening to engulf him once more.

But then there were hands beneath him. Lifting him. Pressing him close to the chest of the one who’d come back for him.

His heartbeat slowed its panicked staccato. Not because the danger was past, no.

But the choices were long past.

Whatever happened now was Master’s will.

There was relief in the surrender.

A sense of movement as he was carried, cradled in the powerful arms of one who kept his claws carefully restrained. Then lowered. Slowly. Gently.

Into water.

He startled at the first touch, but the warmth enveloped him and made everything alright.

He was propped at a careful angle, his chin lolling just above the lapping water which didn’t quite rise high enough to drown his lungs.

Dracula seated himself on the edge of the bathtub. Even divested of his cloak, he still loomed as a menacing bird of prey waiting to strike.

His shirt was a modern style, Renfield noticed distantly. The sleeves were rolled up. The color was… navy?

Was Master wearing something besides the film regalia he’d become so attached to somewhere in the thirties and refused to change no matter how long Renfield had to scour obscure clothing stores for styles further and further out of date?

Dracula took Renfield by the chin, picked up a washcloth and… began to wash his face?

He was as thorough as a cat bathing a kitten. And just as relentless in scrubbing Renfield’s ears until they burned.

He was gentler as he moved down the neck, brushing lightly over throat and stinging puncture wounds. His hand cupped the back of Renfield’s skull, pushing him forward to expose his back.

Renfield rocked with the movements, only Master’s hands keeping him from collapsing into the tub and never rising again. He was limp to every buffet, a rag doll for his master to manipulate as he pleased.

The cloth worked its way down his spine, pausing at every raised bone with slow examination of the thinness.

Renfield flushed with shame. He’d tried to remember to eat, but the energy to do so had been so often lacking. Easier just to push his plate over to another patient before they snatched up the contents anyway. Easier to lay it out as bait for the flies… which he only sometimes remembered to catch when they landed.

Mostly he’d just slept through too many meals to notice their absence.

He remembered his slow descent dimly now. The doctors – kinder than their predecessors and much more interested in diagnosing instead of simply branding him a lunatic – had worried over his steady deterioration even as he’d complied with all their treatments. He’d known none of their pills or brain scans would help, but it had made them feel productive to try and so he’d encouraged their efforts.

None of them had singled him out as particularly interesting, much to his relief.

Really, the hospital had seemed perfectly happy to have him remain in residence indefinitely considering that he could pay for a room and caused no trouble.

He’d not gone there because he’d thought he could find help. He’d gone because it was controlled territory. Somewhere with rules and schedules that could give him structure as his ability to care for himself collapsed.

Somewhere with locks and padded rooms if violence seized him.

Somewhere outside the world to wait until Master came and decided his fate.

And now… here they were.

Dracula lowered him back to the tub wall and lifted one of his arms. Each finger was washed separately, care taken to rub small circles in the skin to erase the long built-up grime.

Moving on to his arms, Dracula sighed and held up the lacerated limb so that Renfield could see the scratches. “When did this start?” Dracula demanded.

Renfield could only gaze helplessly at the destruction his nails had wrought.

If he could have answered he’d have truthfully admitted that he didn’t know. He’d drift away and come back with his skin like that. Arms, belly, thighs.

If there hadn’t been blood under his nails each time, he’d have denied doing the deed.

It never came with memory.

He’d known that it was wrong – harming a body that didn’t belong to him. He’d have stopped if he’d known how.

The count moved to Renfield’s chest, roaming steadily lower and soon splaying Renfield’s legs further apart and leaving the cloth behind in favor of washing by hand.

Intimately.

“There hasn’t been anyone else, has there?” he mused as his fingers probed deep, and tears cascaded down Renfield’s face. “I’d have known if you’d disgraced me further.” His other hand fondled Renfield with cruel squeezing. “I believe it’s common practice to neuter one’s pets should they threaten to slip their collars. Need I resort to such measures?”

Even as Renfield’s mind stuttered with red-hot pain, he felt a surge of elation through the terror.

If Master was contemplating punishments… perhaps he intended to keep Renfield.

Was that what Renfield wanted?

It wasn’t possible to think of that now, not when Master’s hands left him hurting and hungry. Not when Master was still exploring every cleft and curve of his body.

Down each leg, then each foot washed with tender thoroughness.

Renfield panted heavily as his feet were lowered back into the water and released. Was it over?

Did he want it to be?

But, no. Master scooted his body away from the wall again. Held up all his weight for a moment. Then tipped him backwards…

The water closed over his head, one hand behind to control his descent, the other an oppressive weight on his chest.

Renfield opened his eyes, searching through the distortion of water and soap scum to meet the piercing red gleam that stared down at him with interest.

A bubble escaped his mouth. A pause… then another.

His heart fluttered its panic, battering like a scared bird against the hand planted over it.

He didn’t struggle. He couldn’t, of course. But he still whispered commands for his atrophied limbs to remain limp.

To accept what would be.

He felt the probing of Master’s mind, seeking the resistance his body was unable to display.

And he yielded up his mind in immediate surrender.

A long moment of examination. Then the hands bore him from his watery grave and propped him securely against the wall, the count’s arm braced against his chest to keep him from slipping as Dracula tipped a shampoo bottle over his head.

Dracula took his time. Twining the shampoo around every strand. Kneading the dry scalp as Renfield slumped and felt his mind slipping towards something resembling comfort. Dracula’s nails nicked him repeatedly, adding a thrill of danger to the pleasure.

Submerged again, though with no threat of drowning this time. Then conditioner. Then a comb worked painstakingly through the dirty locks.

Dracula didn’t untangle it all. There was hardly need as he produced scissors and set to work.

Renfield watched the bathwater surface fill with discarded dark hairs. They swirled with the eddies, sticking against the tub walls and his skin as if seeking mooring after being cut from the life they’d known.

Dracula took his time with comb and scissors, pausing often to tilt Renfield’s head one way or the other – an artist chiseling their sculpture to a state of perfection.

After the scissors came a razor. The back of Renfield’s neck. His sideburns. The scraggly hairs trying to form into a beard since the last time he’d thought to shave.

Renfield’s skin was pruned and starting to chill by now, but Dracula wasn’t through. He took up one of Renfield’s hands to trim and scrub the nails, then the feet treated with equal care.

It was nice to hold the count’s hand.

Even if he couldn’t hold it back.

Dracula drained the tub and hosed him off with the showerhead. And the grooming seemed over as the vampire started to lift him from the tub, only to pause and seize him by the jaw.

Did Master really intend to clean his teeth as well as everything else?

Apparently, yes.

Never let it be said the vampire did anything by halves.

It was awkward, Renfield’s body slumped and hanging downward as Dracula scrubbed at teeth and tongue with a toothbrush. Renfield drooled all over himself, leaving his belly ribboned in intermingled toothpaste and blood.

Hosed off once more. Finally lifted from the tub and enthroned on the toilet lid.

The count stood over him, and despite his bowed head, Renfield could feel those burning eyes scrutinizing every inch of his battered and too-thin body.

Was he worthy of the time Dracula had just spent on him?

Was he worth saving?

A hand fisted into Renfield’s hair and tilted his head back. He watched as the vampire sliced his own wrist against a canine tooth and pressed the bleeding skin to Renfield’s mouth. “Drink.”

Again his body obeyed. His lips suctioned around Dracula’s arm, and he lapped the familiar dark and chilled blood which slid in a slow sludge down his throat.

His heart gave a final nervous beat, then settled to a slow resting rhythm.

It was the taste of homecoming, and Renfield wept to receive.

He felt the scratches and scrapes knit back to unblemished skin. The punctures on his neck stopped stinging. Every nick to his scalp and rake of his insides eased, leaving peace behind.

Dracula dried and dressed him. Not in the hospital gown. Not in the ragged and outdated suits he’d clung to for decades. It was his new clothes.

Warm wool socks and pants of khaki shade. A long sleeve t-shirt followed by one of his brightly patterned sweaters.

And then he was carried, borne across the hotel room (for that’s what it had to be) and laid upon the bed to recline on a sea of pillows.

Dracula said nothing as he picked up a cell phone and typed into it with a confidence Renfield wouldn’t have expected. He vanished back into the bathroom, and Renfield heard the distinctive sound of cleaning.

His mind drifted, leaving him wondering if any of this was real.

Maybe this was what happened when his mind finally broke. A quiet world where his master tended to his brokenness.

He’d keep the delusion if there was a choice.

A sharp rap on the door awoke Renfield from his daze, his heartrate immediately accelerating to the speed of a racing train.

“Relax, Renfield,” Dracula said as he rose from where he'd apparently been sitting and staring at Renfield. “That’s just our suppers.”

Renfield heard him open the door. Heard him invite someone inside.

A figure in a red hat and shirt walked into the room. A boy with pimples still standing out on his forehead and eyes meeting Renfield’s with clear discomfort.

He was wise to feel nervous. Too bad he didn’t act on it before Dracula stepped behind him and opened his jaws.

The vampire took very little blood. Just enough to make the boy go glassy-eyed and sit where Dracula ordered while the vampire carried the takeout bag to the bedside.

He slid onto the bed and propped Renfield up to lean against his chest.

Dracula hummed to himself as he opened the takeout container. “It’s hard to find a good steak these days, but I did think you could use the protein. You are going to eat every bite.”

The order made it easy. As did Dracula filling the fork and feeding Renfield the meal piece by piece.

Steak. Potatoes. Brussel sprouts. Probably the closest Dracula could imagine to English cuisine, not that Renfield could remember much about his childhood tastes anymore.

Occasionally the count paused his feeding to dab Renfield’s face with a napkin or to give him a drink of water. And then back to his insistence that Renfield eat until his shrunken stomach threatened to burst from the effort.

Dracula smiled his approval as Renfield valiantly swallowed the last bite. “Feeling better?” he asked.

Renfield nodded weakly.

He was starting to feel a twitching in his limbs that meant the paralysis was wearing off, but he wasn’t about to attempt speech without orders.

His master’s moods were fickle. Renfield wasn’t about to do anything that might sour the kindness he’d been granted this night.

Dracula took him by the chin and scrutinized him closely. He gave a satisfied nod and released him at last, letting out a little chuckle as Renfield chased the retreating hand. “I think it’s time for you to sleep, yes?”

Renfield nodded. He’d lived in a perpetual state of exhaustion recently, and this night had been more shock and intensity, not to mention food, than he could cope with.

And this bed was very comfortable.

“Not yet,” Dracula scolded with a light tap to Renfield’s head as the familiar’s eyes sank shut. “You need to be dressed for bed first.”

Renfield wondered vaguely why Dracula had bothered with the clothes if he was just going to put him in a nightgown until Dracula pulled out a bag that clinked ominously…

…and Renfield realized what sort of dressing they were talking about.

The mask came first. A leather muzzle that fit him from chin to eyes, broken only by a slit to breathe.

It wouldn’t restrict his breathing much, though it made talking difficult. Mostly it meant that unless a spider crawled its way into the mouth slit, there would be no bugs for him.

Master had used such things periodically when he wanted Renfield weak until playtime or punishments were over.

The line between the two had always been very blurred.

The cuffs came next, and Renfield was grateful to see that Dracula had purchased padded ones. He held out one wrist to be shackled, nodding assurances that it wasn’t too tight as Dracula carefully tested the fit.

Then his wrist was pulled flush across his chest, the chain strung behind his back, and Dracula was reaching to bind the other wrist in across his stomach.

Renfield cried out a wordless and muffled sound of panicked protest.

Not like this! Never like this! Master could chain him any which way he pleased – suspended from the ceiling, or wrists to ankles, or bound spread eagle on the bed.

But never with arms crossed in front of him! That was how the strait-waistcoat felt. That was how he’d been caged for all those weeks when he’d believed himself abandoned and unwanted.

Dracula’s eyes met his, uncompromising and challenging.

It was a test. And probably a punishment. If it wasn’t the latter yet, it was a warning of what was to come.

With a terrified hitch of his breath, Renfield crossed his arm over the other and laid it into the open cuff.

Dracula smiled. “Good boy,” he murmured.

Renfield wasn’t sure what it said about him that he flushed gratefully at those words and felt his racing heart once more slow.

He didn’t have the energy to think about it.

Dracula pulled back the bedcovers and laid Renfield on the bare mattress. He produced a quantity of rope and passed it over and under the bed, binding first Renfield’s legs, then his torso, into place. With a satisfied look at his handiwork, he tucked the covers tenderly around his familiar.

Until now everything Dracula had produced appeared to have been purchased from the sort of store for people who wished to play these games with comfort and safety. But now Dracula removed the collar…

…and Renfield wondered what Medieval torture museum he’d stolen it from.

It was iron. And heavy. Renfield’s windpipe protested even before Master finished locking it on. The edges were sharp, cutting at once against Renfield’s neck and threatening to dig into a vital vein if he wasn’t careful.

Although the collar had a ring for chaining purposes, Master didn’t bother.

It wasn’t as if Renfield would dare move with the collar threatening to slice him open if he wiggled.

Master bent low and licked a trickle of blood off Renfield’s neck. “Sleep well,” he murmured. “You need the rest.”

He rose. With a snap of his fingers, he brought the unfortunate delivery boy to his heels. They departed the room without either glancing back at the figure bound to the bed.

Renfield stared up at the ceiling, his eyes roving in search of patterns in the spackle.

He had a feeling it was all the company he was going to have for a long time.

Chapter 12: I Did What I Could to Convince You

Before…

Renfield dreamed…

---

---

“You work still? Why do you never sleep?”

Robert raised his heavy head from the table and blinked blearily up at the count who stood watching him from the door of the library. “I wanted to have these estate options ready for you today,” he replied in a slurred voice.

Dracula took the seat beside him, shaking his head in an amused way. “You know my habits. I am unlikely to see you until well after sundown. Why must you exhaust yourself working all day?”

Robert flushed and bowed his head. “I don’t want to disappoint you, Sir.”

“Oh, Renfield.” The count’s chuckle was full of warmth despite the cold hand he patted against Robert’s shoulder. “I am only disappointed when you have no energy to keep me company in the night. Come. Lay aside your pen. Your supper is prepared.”

The count held Robert’s arm for a good distance, leading the stumbling young man through the castle’s twisting corridors to the dining hall.

As usual, it was set for only one, though the count took the seat beside Robert.

As usual, it took some urging before Robert ate.

“It still feels strange, Sir. Me eating without you doing the same.”

“I have told you. I take my meals alone. I do enjoy watching you dine.” The count’s smile was entirely disarming. “You are in much better health than when you arrived.”

Renfield ducked his head. “You’ve taken very good care of me, Sir.”

“That surprises you, yes? You are in my service while you prepare these papers. Why would I not care for what is mine?”

“It’s… no one else ever has.”

“Ah, Renfield.” The count squeezed his arm, making Robert tremble. “Forget the before. You are here now. You are safe from the world’s cruelty.”

Robert took a shaky breath. “I can’t stay much longer, Sir.”

“No?” Dracula looked hurt.

Robert blushed and stared at his hands. “It’s… my wife. The money I left – it’s sure to have run out by now. If I don’t return to work soon…”

“Is money the only concern? That is easily remedied.”

“Oh, no, Sir. I couldn’t. You’ve been generous, but to give…”

“Give? What give? You have earned. You work as the dog despite my commands to rest. I pay for your good works. This is well. You stay?”

“But…” Robert stuttered. “I can’t begin to look at the properties we’ve been discussing until I get back to England. If you’re so anxious to move…”

Dracula waved a dismissive hand. “No, no. I plan for the future. England can wait. You stay. Assist me in learning your language. Your customs. I would not be so ignorant a foreigner when I come.”

“I’m not… I’m nobody, Sir. I couldn’t describe most of high society or introduce you…”

“Ack. The rich are the rich all over the world. I will meet their snobbery as I do always. It is the others you teach me of. The serfs. No? Common people? You teach me of your cities. How the people live. How they entertain themselves. We will read together, and you will converse with me. You will teach me the English laws and draft my correspondence with your countrymen. A secretary, yes? See, Renfield?” His eyes were bright and piercing as they stared so fierce that Robert wondered if they could see into his mind. “There is much use you can be to me. So… will you stay?”

Robert swallowed, his heart racing with a heat he couldn’t explain. “Yes,” he whispered.

And Dracula smiled.

---

“You have become as the children of the night,” Dracula greeted Robert as the young man stepped into count’s study sometime past twilight, still blinking himself awake.

Weeks of the count urging Robert to stay with him long into the night were finally curbing Robert’s circadian rhythm into something closer to nocturnal even if he did still spend his mornings working until he dropped once Dracula dismissed him from his company.

Robert flushed. “Did I keep you waiting, Sir?”

“Not at all. I had other business to tend to while I awaited your company. Still, I bear sad news. The last of my servants has run off while I slept.”

Robert frowned. “Is it because of me? He was trying to tell me something yesterday. I couldn’t understand it, and he seemed so upset. I hope I didn’t offend him.” He felt a selfish wonder of how he'd shave now. His kit had been pawned on the journey, and although the count had provided basic toiletries, there hadn't been a mirror. Robert, too embarrassed by his destitute state, didn't dare ask for anything not provided. But the servant had noticed Robert's thoroughly nicked face and had assisted him a few times.

“Not at all. The peasants are superstitious creatures. They do not like to be long in this place. There are ill-told stories of the village which used to sit near the castle walls. So, I cannot keep any for long. More will come. They always do. Until then…” He rose with a fluid grace. “…I will see to your meals myself.”

“Oh, Sir. I could never expect you to do that. If you’ll show me where the kitchen is, I’m sure I can…”

“What? You are my guest! I cannot be so inhospitable as to expect you to prepare your own bread.”

“I thought I was your employee now.”

“True, true. And you work so hard as it is. No, I would not add more labor to your precious waking hours.”

“It’s really no trouble, Sir. I’m… I don’t know much cooking, but I’m sure I can manage.”

“With these unfamiliar spices and dishes? You would be out of your depths.”

Robert reddened and stared at his shoes. “I could try,” he whispered around the flood of memories of countless similar dismissals whenever he dared attempt anything above the simplest tasks.

The count’s hand was suddenly on his arm. “You certainly may, my boy. Come. We go to the kitchen. We shall assist each other, yes?”

Robert’s heart raced with unfamiliar eagerness. “Yes, Sir. I can… I’d like that.”

“Good. Come.”

Hand still on his arm, Dracula led him from the room.

---

“Ack, Renfield. How do you explode the flour everywhere?”

Robert nearly fell into a stream of apologies, but instead he found himself smiling and bending with a little more care over the dough he kneaded.

The count wasn’t helping much tonight. His skill lay in chopping and preparing meats, as well as seasoning with unbelievable olfactory perfection.

But baking… he merely laughed and handed Robert dry ingredients as the young man struggled to wrestle the dough into something that wouldn’t come out tough and burnt.

“There is no pan large enough for the beast you have formed,” the count observed.

“It’ll grow even larger once it’s had time to rise,” Robert replied. “Is there another large bowl?”

The count rummaged through cupboards, returning with a bowl. He leaned near Robert’s side as he set the bowl on the counter. “You will eat bread until spring if you continue this way.”

“About that… If I don’t leave soon, the passes will close, and I’ll be trapped all winter. I don’t want to become an imposition.”

“Imposition? Bah. You are too hard a worker to ever be such a thing. And the winters here are long and cold. Lonely. I will be pleased to have fresh blood at my side to warm me these long months. Your wife’s letters say she receives the money and is well. Your employers can do without you.” There was a growl in the count’s voice. “Ill-treated as you were. It would please me for you to stay.”

Robert froze, his heart hammering in his throat.

When had the count’s hand slipped around Robert’s back? When had it formed so comfortably around his hip?

He dared raise his eyes, finding the count gazing steadily back at him. Patient. Waiting.

“S-Sir?” Robert managed around his rapid-fire pulse.

“Yes, Renfield?”

“Y-your hand…”

“Ah.” The count looked down as if he had only just noticed what his left hand had been getting up to without his knowledge. “You English are cautious of touch, yes? Is this too low?”

Robert nodded his head jerkily.

Dracula merely gazed back, raising one eyebrow expectantly.

Robert licked his lips and found his struggling voice. “Y-yes, Sir. Too… too low.”

“Ah.” The count’s hand slid up, his eyes never breaking their lock with Robert’s. “And here?” he asked as his hand settled at the base of Robert’s ribs, his long nails lightly mapping the empty space between them. “Too low?”

Robert had to swallow a time or two more. “Yes… Yes, S-sir.”

The hand rose up, easing beneath Robert’s arm to trace up his side, landing now over his pectorals, a finger questing out to brush ever so gently against Robert’s nipple. “And this?”

Robert’s eyes sank closed, aware that his blood was aflamed and eager and rushing much too low for comfort. “Yes,” he whispered, no force to the word.

“Look at me, Renfield.”

Robert’s eyes snapped open.

Dracula was much closer than before. Robert had shifted to face him without noticing his shuffling feet. Those red-flaked eyes held more in the hidden depths than Robert could ever ascertain.

“You would like me to move my hand?”

Robert’s mind was reeling too much for him to be sure of what he wanted. Still, he clung to enough of convention to whisper, “Yes, please, Sir.”

The hand rose obligingly, playing up his neck with special care to linger on his throbbing pulse. Dracula’s hand settled at last cupped against Robert’s chin. His thumb rested over Robert’s lower lip as his forefinger played small swirls into the short hairs surrounding his ear.

Robert heard a mewling sound escape his own lips, his head sagging into the touch.

“Here?” Dracula prompted with a smile in his voice. “Is this acceptable?”

“Yes,” Robert breathed, throwing convention and caution to the wind.

“I am glad we can set these boundaries,” Dracula hummed softly. “You do well to tell me your limitations. I am pleased with you. My good boy.”

Robert made another whining noise he didn’t know a human could utter. His knees buckled, only his hands braced upon the flour-strewn counter preventing him from collapsing at Dracula’s feet.

He found something sinfully appealing in that image.

“I will touch no more of you until you ask,” Dracula said. He leaned close and whispered in Robert’s ear. “I hope you will ask.”

Robert wasn’t sure he remembered speech enough to ask for anything.

“You tremble so,” Dracula observed, his fingers now pressed to Robert’s racing pulse. “I hear the English shame this sort of desire. But you’ve felt it before, yes?”

“…Yes,” Robert panted.

“It is good. You will leave your shame behind and ask for my touch one day.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Robert breathed, uncertain if he could remember any other word.

Dracula’s hand cupped the back of his neck, a grip so careful and yet so powerful that Robert wasn’t certain he could break away if he wanted to.

The lips that met his were cool, but they warmed quickly against his hot-blooded response. The mouth claimed him with unhurried exploration, pressing tight to his lips, then slipping in a tongue to discover him more intimately.

Dracula pulled away at long last, holding Robert’s lower lip delicately between his sharp and pointed teeth. He met Robert’s eyes, a challenge or a question there that Robert couldn’t comprehend.

The count released him slowly, turning Robert back to his bread-making with the hand still resting at the back of his neck. “You will stay the winter,” he said, the words now an order more than a request.

“Yes, Sir,” Robert whispered, bowing his head to the command.

A feather-light kiss brushed the back of his neck.

“You cannot comprehend how pleased you make me,” the count breathed against his ear.

And Robert was left alone to sag over the dough, his body aflame with want and shame, with memories of the past and hungers of the future.

And the count’s kiss burning on his neck.

---

---

Mrs. Harker came to see him on some flimsy pretext of touring the asylum and meeting with all the patients.

Renfield had been wary enough of all Dr. Seward’s guests to swallow down the entirety of his flies before she entered.

But she was… kinder than he’d have expected.

At least she didn’t tease or try to poke him into a state of entertaining madness. Even if she did eventually start asking about the bug-eating.

He studied her long and thoughtfully as she sat with him.

Her husband could have been Master’s new familiar. Perhaps he would have been, had Renfield not come years sooner and begun preparations enough for the master’s arrival in England that Master had chosen to complete the work through free agents instead of thralls. Even so, Master likely would have happily compelled a new creature to his will and to his bed.

Maybe he had.

Maybe there were secrets Jonathan hadn’t written in that journal. It had, after all, been meant to be read by his wife.

Whatever Dracula had initially intended, he’d abandoned Jonathan to the women (and Renfield had seen what they did to prey), and if Jonathan had felt any temptation to swear away his immortal soul, he’d chosen instead to flee back to England and to the woman he loved.

Now Jonathan was free and wed to this lovely woman.

And Renfield was locked in a cell with a mind barely coherent on the best of nights, his wife far away, his master one misdeed away from discarding him entirely.

He told her to go away. From the house. Go far from there and never return.

It was the most he dared do to warn Master’s intended prey.

---

Master rode in his mind again that night as they returned to Dr. Seward’s study and read the rest of the doctor’s notes and the Harkers’ journals. Ms. Lucy was twice over dead and buried. And Mrs. Harker had noticed Renfield’s interest in the house next door.

Master was not at all pleased that Renfield had given his hiding place away.

Renfield might have dared point out that they’d have figured it out without his assistance considering Jonathan had purchased the place for the count, but he wasn’t stupid enough to do so even with his mind unmoored.

Journals read, Renfield ghosted through the corridors, easing open doors until they found where the Harkers slept.

He stared at husband and wife, entwined together in blissful security and felt his heart grow sick.

Tomorrow, you’ll invite me in, Dracula told him as he released Renfield to creep back to his room alone.

Renfield shuddered. He’d do it. Of course he’d do it.

And the doing might shatter what was left of his heart.

---

He begged Dr. Seward to send him away.

Send him to jail. Send him to another asylum. Lock him up forever. Just send him away from here.

He didn’t know if it helped or hurt his cause that Dr. Seward came to see him with all his coconspirators in tow.

He tried to be polite, greeting Dr. Van Helsing and Mr. Morris and Lord Godalming as respectfully and intelligently as he could.

He tried to bridge a connection with one of them. Tried to say the right things to make them speak to Dr. Seward on his behalf.

He turned his back on Harker and never looked in his direction. It was courtesy enough not to slit the throat of the one who’d thought to steal his place at the master’s feet.

They wouldn’t heed his pleas. They wouldn’t believe him sane enough to be set free, nor would they consent to having him moved elsewhere before nightfall. They had other concerns besides one they deemed raving and incoherent.

He was mad in their eyes and so they couldn’t hear the warning.

So be it, he thought dispiritedly after they’d left him to the emptiness of the room. I tried to save you.

---

When Master came to him that night, he’d already opened the window and the hall door so that the flock of bats shot past him at the first whisper of welcome and darted away to their bloody revenge.

Chapter 13: Scripture

Now...

The day and most of the night passed before Master returned.

In the interim, Renfield’s mind wandered far afield, sometimes sobbing for Seward to remove the strait-waistcoat in return for any desired show of submission, sometimes pleading for Master to save him from one asylum or another despite being unworthy, despite being broken.

He thrashed in his delirium, slicing his neck a dozen times on the jagged metal and leaving him woozy with further blood loss.

He tried to hold in his bladder, but he returned from one such time beyond his mind to discover that to no longer be an issue.

Something else to certainly displease Master.

Surprisingly, Master said nothing about the soiled clothes when he finally loosened the bonds and allowed Renfield to move from the bed.

He didn’t remove the collar. Renfield didn’t ask.

Renfield swayed on his hands and knees, too weak and exhausted to stand without the room spinning. Master seemed to approve of his weakness considering that he settled in the room’s only chair, dropped a takeaway box at his feet, and gestured for Renfield to eat there.

Renfield bent his head nearly to the floor and complied. He lapped up the food quickly and mechanically, tasting nothing, focused only on filling his belly while Master was feeling generous enough to provide.

There was no certainty how long this period of calm would last.

Finished, he tentatively leaned against his master’s legs, and, when he wasn’t repulsed, rested his cheek against the vampire’s knee.

His heartbeat slowed, a feeling of safety and peace stealing over him.

This was where he was meant to be. A familiar at his master’s side. He felt as if he could breathe for the first in decades. Everything in his soul sang that this was right. That he’d never been meant to stray beyond this place.

His mind felt, not miraculously better, but steady. His thoughts drifted like molasses – slow, but all moving in the same direction and not fracturing like a school of fish when a shark dives into their midst.

He hoped he’d die like this – resting at his master’s feet, unaware that the end was nigh.

He hadn’t earned that peaceful a death.

But he’d savor this as long as he was allowed.

“Are you with me?” Master asked.

Renfield considered the state of his mind seriously before he answered. “Yes, I think so.”

“Look at me.”

Renfield tilted his head up, the collar slicing fresh furrows into his neck.

Master’s eyes scrutinized his for a long minute. He nodded and leaned back. “You’re more lucid than I thought you’d be considering how you looked.”

“I think your blood helped, Master.”

Dracula snorted softly. “So you still think to call me that after what you did.”

It wasn’t a question, and Renfield didn’t have an answer even if it had been. He kept silent, trying to focus purely on the moment without allowing any dread to arise from where it simmered just below the surface. Let now be all that mattered. Not the past. Not the fu-

“Do you recall that town we stayed in that winter in Siberia?” Dracula asked abruptly.

Renfield shuddered, his mind immediately tossed back to that season. “It was so cold.”

“The nights lasted so long,” the count hummed with pleasure. “I could keep you in bed with me night and day with just a few hours away in the coffin.” He chuckled. “You were blue when I came back to untie you.”

Renfield pressed closer against the semi-warmth of the vampire. The master wasn’t quite as cold as the stories said. He had his own warmth.

If one clung to him long enough to find it.

That wasn’t a bad memory, really. He’d been half frozen, yes. But Dracula had built up the fire and bundled Renfield up beside it and fed him on broth until Renfield’s shivering had slackened and Master had led him back to the bed to finish warming him with more physical exertion.

It was always nice when Master took care of him.

Better the times that Master wasn’t the reason he’d been hurt in the first place, but… Renfield would take what signs of affection he could get.

I deserve to be loved. His mind nudged up his long-forgotten affirmations. I deserve to be treated with respect.

“Who was that man who insulted you for bedding a man? The one who boasted he had forty children?” Dracula’s voice held a grim smile to it. “How many children did he have left when we were done?”

“Two,” Renfield replied. And that had been because the eldest pair had nipped off to a distant village before Renfield had effectively found ways to trap the villagers in their homes for the winter while Dracula fed at his leisure.

Dracula chuckled. “I wonder if they still tell tales of the monster who slaughtered the entire town.”

It hadn’t been the entire town. Actually, Renfield considered that one of the most successful seasons he’d ever spent regulating his master’s feeding.

Dracula didn’t need to eat every night, nor did he need to kill every time he fed. He enjoyed the killing part. But if he found someone with particularly tasty blood, he could sometimes be convinced to savor them for a few days before draining them dry. In modern times, dubious corners of the internet helpfully provided blood bags and anticoagulants enough for Renfield to be able to feed his master off one body for a week or more provided they were staying somewhere with soundproof walls and a reliable refrigerator. Back then he’d had to talk Dracula into keeping the person alive instead of wasting half their bodily fluid. He’d been thrown through many a wall when his master didn’t feel like listening.

Renfield had learned that if his master received plenty of exercise and interesting things to do with his time, he ate far less than when he wallowed bored in his coffin thinking about nothing but his next meal.

So the near-total darkness of the remote far north had been ideal for keeping his master occupied and the local food source cut off from seeking help.

They’d spent a pleasant winter there, enjoying a month of interacting with the villagers while Dracula picked off those who wandered into the wilds for game or firewood before the body count aroused suspicion. By the time everyone knew who was doing the killing, it was clear that the first to go were those who either ran for help, attacked the strangers’ home, or belonged to the family that had insulted the strangers’ relationship. And in the spirit of solidarity of a rural village, everyone had barred their doors, behaved with terrified civility when Renfield came to buy food, and prayed that the monster would eat their neighbors and leave them in peace.

There’d been a few undesirables among the villagers who’d been happy to trade guarding and tending to the house for food and shelter. And had also been willing to be fed upon when the blizzards grew too wild in return for their lives.

All total, there’d only been about seventy deaths in the six months they’d spent there before the thaw and the return of the sun, which were excellent statistics as far as Renfield was concerned.

They’d probably left the village with longstanding psychological trauma, but they’d been alive to experience it. And wasn’t that better than the alternative?

Sometimes Renfield had gone the other route - taking whole families or communities so that no one remained to suffer the pang of loss.

He wasn’t a hero by any stretch of imagination. He’d sold his soul to a century-long job of feeding a monster. But when he’d done his job right, at least he’d mitigated the damage done. At least he’d kept the killing sprees to a minimum.

And didn’t Dracula deserve as much right to live as the billions of humans overwhelming the planet?

Was he justifying the century-long streak of murders he’d assisted with committing and covering up? Yes.

But it was also true.

And he was so very lonely.

I deserve to be happy. I deserve to be treated with kindness.

“You don’t think I’ve been kind to you?”

Renfield gulped. “I…”

A hand came down on his head. Renfield flinched until he felt the soft swirls of gentle petting. He leaned into the touch.

Yes, Master’s hand could easily turn cruel and punishing. But until that happened…

Renfield would take what scraps he was thrown.

“You’re right,” Dracula admitted, and that caused Renfield to jerk his head up like nothing else could.

The vampire was staring into the distance. “Do you recall what you suggested to me? Settling down somewhere. Finding a life. More than just… surviving.”

Renfield waited, his emotions poised on a knifepoint.

Retrospective moods could veer in dangerously unexpected directions without warning.

“I’ve been alive a long time,” Dracula mused, his claws beginning to gouge a little too deep in their petting. “Longer than you can imagine. There was a time… many times… that I’ve found purpose… reasons for existing. But those reasons go away eventually. Humans die. Empires fall. The world changes.” He laughed softly. “Idiotic of me to dream of ruling it. What would be the point? Subduing the sheep would just cause irritating dissenters. Bring out more hunters.” He sighed. “A shame those are all gone.”

Renfield blinked.

He’d never thought to mourn the hunters. And he doubted they were all gone. Maybe they’d taken out the last of the Vatican’s special forces, but books of monster-hunting lore still existed.

And there were always the amateurs to contend with.

There’d been a few of those shortly before the church had found them that last time. Those two boys with their muscle car stuffed with guns and those kids who’d brought a dog along for reasons unknown.

In Renfield’s mind, the amateurs meant meals delivered conveniently to their door, not a reason to immediately move. Just a few more bodies and vehicles to make vanish.

An end of the professionals had seemed like a relief.

It had opened up the possibility of just staying somewhere for a while.

Not always being on the run.

But maybe the count enjoyed the danger. The prey that could fight back. The possibility that this time…

Was Master tired of being alive?

That was an unsettling thought.

Was it possible…?

“Did you find what you were looking for while you were off your leash?” Dracula interrupted the silence.

Renfield jumped. “I…”

I deserve to be listened to. I deserve to have my needs met.

He took a deep breath and spoke in a tremor. “I… wanted to… to find who I was. As an individual.”

Dracula’s hand had stilled, a too-present weight on Renfield’s head.

“I…” He panted hard and braced himself. “…found things I liked doing. People things. Not just…” The tremors were getting too extreme to go on.

“Was it so arduous in my service?”

“No! No, of c-course not, Master. I’m grateful that… I mean…”

“If you couldn’t keep up with my needs, you might have spoken up before we reached such a confrontation.”

“I’m sorry! I never meant to-”

“My expectations never changed. I don’t understand why you suddenly objected to them.”

“I didn’t! I-”

“Calm down, Servant.” Dracula’s hand pressed down with more force. “You’re still too fresh from your latest ordeal to excite yourself.”

Renfield hunkered down, sensations of shame and inadequacy flooding over him. Master was right, of course. He’d never explained himself, had he? If he had…

I deserve to be listened to.

“You’re not listening,” he whimpered.

Dracula’s hand tightened on the nape of his neck. “What was that?”

“I… I said…” He hardly needed to repeat it to someone who could hear far better than any human and could simply listen into his mind. But he forced himself to speak. “I want to explain myself. Completely. Please.”

There was a long and poignant pause, both frozen in their poses.

Dracula shot from his chair, scooped Renfield up, and tossed him onto the bed. Renfield landed on his back, no strength to resist as Dracula pounced, seized the hem of his shirts, and pulled them high enough to cover Renfield’s eyes and tangle his arms into helplessness. One hand flattened Renfield to the mattress by the sternum, his legs entangling with the familiar’s to prevent squirming.

Renfield felt a claw trace its way up his side and pause at his collarbone.

“Then explain yourself,” Dracula hissed. “I won’t interrupt you.”

“I-” Renfield’s first syllable broke with a scream as Dracula dug a claw into his skin.

The claw gorged a slow and painstaking line, not faltering even as Renfield’s chest heaved.

His head spun dizzily. His hands contracted and twitched with pain. “I’m yours!” he burst out.

The cutting didn’t pause.

“I d-do anything for you. H-have done,” Renfield gasped, struggling not to wail.

He’d had much worse than… whatever Master was doing to him now.

Just… he usually wasn’t expected to give an impassioned speech while being cut open.

“I d-didn’t want a-another life. I just wanted… more life. S-something for me. To-to explore… me. Who I am. W-without you.”

If Dracula was listening, there was no sign of it. His claw worked slowly, moving methodically across Renfield’s chest, slicing as he went.

“But that d-didn’t mean I wanted to leave you,” Renfield insisted. “I j-just…”

He couldn’t think how to explain. How to express how their relationship had deteriorated over the years. How perhaps he’d never been treated well, but there’d been quantum of solace enough to content him with his lot in life.

He had fond memories of their years. Evenings at home playing cards and sipping their respective drinks, Dracula telling stories of so distant a past as to make Renfield’s head spin. Nights at the opera and the theatre, Renfield experiencing arts he could never have otherwise afforded, and Dracula analyzing the performances with the air of an expert. Moonlit rides through the country, getting the lay of their new territory, greeting the neighbors as they passed with cheery assurances that they’d come calling soon. Standing at the bow of a ship, his master’s arm around his waist, looking out at a country he’d never dreamed he’d ever visit in person but that was now about to be his new home.

He let out a sob which had nothing to do with the pain in his chest… which had stopped for the moment.

There was a chill across his mind of a presence retreating.

Master had been watching his memories.

Maybe he didn’t need to find the words after all.

But there were other words he needed to say.

“I missed… being happy. Feeling… worthwhile. Feeling…”

Say it. Say it.

“…loved.”

The claws sunk deep, hacking ferocious slashes across Renfield’s ribs.

His head slammed back with the renewed onset of pain, anything else he’d hoped to express swallowed up in agony.

“And did you find it?” Dracula demanded harshly as he paused in his savaging. “Did you find someone else to love you when you left me?”

Renfield’s mind was awash with white-hot pain and confusion. The world was fragmenting again, what little hold he’d had on reality shattering beneath his master’s claws.

Someone else… someone else… who did I…?

“Me!” he shrieked, grasping that one identity amidst the shattering cascade. “I found me! That’s all I wanted to find!”

The shirt was yanked higher, his terrified and unsteady eyes caught by his master’s burning and outraged ones. But he saw something else before he was lost in their depths.

“Master!” he cried. “The sun!”

Dracula whirled, facing the large window with the early grey-dawn light paling the night sky. With a curse, his weight was gone. A cloud of mist dashing to the window, pooling out a crack too small to be seen…

…and Renfield was alone.

He lay where he’d been discarded, sobbing out his pain and misery for hours before he felt capable of sitting up and inching out of the sweater.

Every shift of his arms hurt. Fresh blood beaded from the wounds as soon as he tried to move.

I’ve had worse, he reminded himself.

Being stabbed, shot, and electrocuted were normal hazards of the job. Not to mention the more unusual fatal or near-fatal injuries that he’d fortunately always been healed from with only a glimpse of the darkness beyond.

And then there was Dracula, who - even when he was merely playing with his familiar - rarely took the thinness of Renfield’s skin or the frailty of his bones into consideration.

Worse were the times like this – when the pain came from his own failings. When he was punished for things he knew better than to say or do and was left afterwards to bandage his wounds and press on with his duties until his master granted him a reprieve from pain.

Duties…

He had nothing to do.

Dracula had left him no orders. No indication of how to placate the anger he’d awoken.

His trembling redoubled, what little grip he’d been keeping on reality shattering and darting away like a cloud of bats.

He was jolted back to the moment as he hit the floor, one shoulder taking the weight and the wounds bursting open.

What had caused them?

Where was he?

This… it seemed to be a hotel room. Daylight. Master was elsewhere.

Angry at him. Yes… something had happened.

What had he done this time?

He crawled to the bathroom, struggling to keep from collapsing to his mangled chest.

The sink was too high, but enough fumbling eventually got the bathtub faucet spewing cold water.

He cupped his hands and drank repeatedly, splashing himself thoroughly in the process and smearing away some of the blood.

Master’s handiwork.

Renfield gingerly touched the ragged edge closest to his collarbone, bewildered by the cross pattern to it. Almost like a T.

Or… very much like a T.

With a thrill of alarm, he cupped his hands under the faucet, sloshing handful after handful of water down his front, gaining brief glimpses of the claw marks before they dripped with blood once more.

Letters. They were letters. Near impossible to read upside down in their poorly carved state but… there was an L further down his chest and something beginning with an F over his abdomen.

He struggled for an impossibly long time, writing the letters as he deciphered them in blood on the bathroom floor.

First word… TRAITOR.

Second… LIAR.

Third… FAILURE.

Renfield stared. And stared. And shook.

A mistake. Please. Please, let him have been wrong. Please, let this be a dream. A game. A delusion.

Not… not…

He collapsed to his side, heedless of the still-running water, heedless of the chill creeping into his bones.

He’d failed. He’d failed. Master had declared it in blood.

Unclean.

Unwanted.

Worthless.

The world imploded into darkness and fragments, and Renfield welcomed the rush of oblivion.

Chapter 14: I Don’t Want Any Souls

Before…

Master had entered the house on Renfield’s invitation. He’d flown away through the corridors, and Renfield had heard no sound until the stream of bats shot back through his room and out the window.

“Take me with you!” he had cried and ran to the window. “Master! I did as you asked! Please, take me away from here!”

But there was no answer.

In the morning, Renfield waited in tense anxiety for the sound of screams. For the bodies to be discovered.

But no cries came.

The asylum operated normally all day long.

Master came again in the night, needing no invitation now to stream by Renfield in a mist, once more saying not a word to him as he went off on his business.

Morning once more brought no change.

Except… Mrs. Harker came to visit Renfield. She spoke as kindly and friendly as she had before.

She knew he was aligned against her. He’d read the journals. He knew she’d made the connection between him and the master.

Yet she said no word of threat. Pressed for no information.

She was simply kind.

Lonely with the men away.

Willing to seek out whatever company she could find.

Even if it was just Dr. Seward’s favorite pet.

Despite the kindness, she was not as she had been.

Paler. Tired. Feeling not of hot blood and life but of…

…the coldness that Master carried with him.

Renfield edged as close to her as he dared without raising her unease. He stared hard at her neck.

There they were. Covered by the choker she wore, but Renfield could see them when she turned her head.

The punctures wounds he knew so well.

So Master did not intend to slaughter his enemies.

He’d hurt them a different way.

A cuckoo in their midst. A new prize in retaliation for what they’d taken from him.

And his mind flitted to the past…

---

---

Robert wondered if he ought to turn back as the corridors he walked grew darker and dustier.

Count Dracula had warned him against wandering and about leaving locked doors alone, and he’d kept to those restrictions faithfully. In an old castle like this, there were probably good reasons for locked doors, nor would he presume to intrude upon his host’s privacy.

His months here had been the happiest of his life. He certainly wouldn’t interfere with such simple rules as respecting locks and not wandering unattended into the castle interior or its grounds.

He was just about to turn back when he heard a thump behind the nearest door.

“Sir?” he called, tapping his knuckles against the door. “The caravan has-”

The door flew open, but it was not the count who sprang across the threshold and slammed Robert into the wall.

Two women, their eyes red and wild and their skin gleaming pale even in the dark hall, pressed sharp nailed hands into his shoulders and hissed furious sentences at him in a language utterly lost on Robert.

He tried to raise his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you! I didn’t know anyone else was – Please! I don’t mean harm. Don’t-” He cried out as one of them dug her nails deep into his shoulder, ripping through cloth and skin. With an eager gleam in her eyes, she dipped her wide mouth towards the wound…

There was a roar and a scream and Robert was flung backwards with force enough to knock the breath from his lungs. When he raised his head, it was to behold Dracula grappling with the women, shouting in their own tongue with a fury Robert had never heard from his kind host.

As he flung one woman into the wall and pinned the other struggling form to the floor, Dracula whipped his head to glare at Robert. “Your room! Go!”

Robert crab-crawled backwards until he managed to get his feet under him and bolted.

The halls and stairs flew by, his panicked flight nearly getting him entirely lost before he stumbled into his room, slammed the door shut, and continued his headlong dash until he hit the far wall, and collapsed to the ground with his knees drawn to his chin and a hand clutched to his throbbing shoulder.

His heart and mind were pounding too hard for thought, what little he could formulate darting over broken bits of who and what and how and the count’s burning, outraged eyes.

And then he didn’t need to remember them because the count was looming over him, appearing without Robert hearing the door.

“You were warned!” the count bellowed, his lips pulling back in a terrifying grimace that revealed an array of alarmingly pointed teeth. “You were told not to pry into secrets.”

Robert cowered, raising trembling hands in surrender. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset anything!”

Dracula’s eyes locked onto Robert’s bloody palm, his pupils dilating with sudden enraptured interest. “You are wounded.”

He stepped closer, looming like a specter of horror over the shaking man. With a visible shudder, he stopped short of swooping down on Robert. “Explain,” he said in a thick voice, “why you walked there.”

“I-I was looking for you!” Robert stammered, shrinking even further beneath the stare. “The c-caravan arrived with fresh supplies and mail. The gate was locked. I th-thought I could let them into the courtyard if y-you’d let me borrow the key. I’m sorry I startled those ladies. I didn’t know anyone else was here!”

The count froze, still looming and deadly. Then in an entirely different tone – “Oh, Renfield.”

The shadow of death and danger evaporated like the morning mist, leaving only Robert’s congenial host helping him to his feet and tutting over his injury.

In a daze, Robert allowed himself to be led to the bed and made to lie down.

“Look away while I see to this,” the count said, pushing Robert’s head to the side and shielding his eyes with one hand. “Ah. It is nothing. Sleep. It will be gone when you awaken.”

Robert tried to protest, especially when he caught a scent of fresh blood. But the count’s hand brushed his forehead, whispering for him to sleep without dreams and awake peacefully. A heavy calm stole over Robert, and his mind drifted into darkness.

When he awoke, he could find no trace of injury, nor was there any sign of blood anywhere in the room.

Robert nearly believed it to have been a dream.

The count never mentioned it again.

---

---

Alone, Renfield paced, trying to make sense of his tumbled thoughts.

Why should he care? Mrs. Harker was just another human chosen as plaything by a god. Why should it bother him to see her marked?

Because the women in the castle had terrified him, and he dreaded to see another like that brought into existence? Because Master might not want him if he chose a new companion? Because Master had come for her and left Renfield behind?

Because she’d been kind, and so few were kind to him – what of that?! There were many kind people in the world, some of whom he’d lured to his Master’s table already and would gladly do so again to please the vampire. Hadn’t he opened the door and expected to facilitate a slaughter?

Except she wasn’t chosen as food. She was being made like Master.

And… that didn’t sit well with him.

He thought of the lives he’d taken. It hadn’t felt… well, at first it had been awful.

Then it had just been feeding the master. Finding life so that Master could live on.

Why shouldn’t Master take? He deserved life just as much as they.

Why were their lives anymore worth preserving than his?

Sometimes Renfield thought he felt the souls of the departed hum around him. Sometimes he believed there were no such thing as souls. Mostly he thought it didn’t matter. A cow or sheep probably had just as much of a soul as a human, and no one thought about those souls as they crafted their stews.

If Master had killed her, so be it. One died so another might live. That was the nature of the world.

And if she wanted to be as Master…

Ah. That was the trouble.

Renfield had chosen. He’d surrendered his freedom so that his family could live better than he could ever provide for them on his own. So that he could belong and have purpose. Meaning in a world so overwhelming.

Jonathan had chosen. He’d run away. Maybe he’d been offered the same prospects as Renfield. Maybe he’d heard the siren call of the women and felt the temptation to know how it would feel beneath their teeth and bodies. Maybe he’d been tempted.

But he’d chosen his wife. He’d seen the other paths open before him. And he’d turned away from them. Returned home. Found allies to fight with him. Prepared to defend the choices he’d made.

Mrs. Harker… she’d made no choice.

And that was the part that left Renfield’s mind stewing.

If she’d chosen Dracula over Jonathan, if she’d seen the castle and the women and bared her throat with open eyes… that would have been different.

But to be forced into the existence of the undead, to have her life drained from her night after night without her awareness, to awaken one evening at last to realize she wasn’t as she had been. That she hungered for blood and shunned those she’d once loved. That her home would forever be crypts and cold castles and a lover who she hadn’t chosen but who had claimed her without invitation.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all.

But what could he do? Shut up and called mad by those who would have fought for the woman. And to speak a word against the master… was that even possible even if they’d listen to him?

His soul wasn’t his own. And to defy the one who owned him…

But Mrs. Harker had been kind.

And Master had abandoned him with a laugh.

Resolute, Renfield spread out his sugar, opened an empty jar, and waited for the flies to come.

---

Master flowed in as a mist through the open window and solidified in the cell. “Servant, after tonight-”

Renfield leaped.

He’d gulped down the entirety of his fly collection the instant he’d felt Master approaching. Charged on their lifeforce, he saw the target in single-minded focus, blind to all other sights and sounds.

The past several hours had seen his mind whirling in a frenzy he’d not felt before.

Too long! Too long abandoned and alone! Too long without clarity or purpose!

And the one who’d discarded him…

He struck with wild fury, forgetting any learned skills or tactics in favor of striking and striking and striking and-

Slam!

He felt the wall shudder as he was flung backwards into it. Dazed, he stuck out his feet, trying to regain his balance before the next attack came.

Dracula’s fist smashed his nose to putty before he could raise a hand. Relentlessly, the vampire struck him again and again, bones shattering beneath the onslaught and giving Renfield no pause to retaliate.

And in his head, the master roared his outrage, swamping Renfield’s mind with claws and cruelty that shattered his resolve utterly.

Renfield cowered low, bringing up his hands in surrender, thoroughly overwhelmed and terrified beyond measure.

But Dracula wasn’t through with him.

The vampire swept him up with effortless strength. For a moment he held his familiar suspended above his head, then he crashed Renfield’s body down over the bedframe.

There was a sound of splintering and snapping and screams too horrific to be human…

 

….and Dr. Seward was trickling brandy over his lips as someone else pressed something cold to the inferno in his head.

“Take off the strait-waistcoat, please doctor,” Renfield begged in a slur that dripped broken teeth and foaming blood. “I’ll be good. I can’t… I can’t think…”

And then it all came back.

He told them what he could in a small and broken voice. Knowing it was too late. Knowing that even if their presence had made the master retreat momentarily, he was sure to find another door.

He had been welcomed here. He’d sunk his fangs twice over into Mrs. Harker.

He’d have her again.

The men ran from the room as Renfield slipped into a grey mist where occasional figures moved unsteadily and spoke with voices too far to hear.

And then Master was there. Sharp as an obsidian knife through the fog.

Death’s looming shadow swathed around him.

“Master,” Renfield whimpered with a smile.

Master raised his fist.

Renfield lowered his skull beneath the executioner’s hammer to embrace the blow.

Notes:

Harker: All the doors are locked. I need to find a way out!
Renfield: All the doors are locked. It's probably for my safety.

Harker: There are no mirrors. Something is wrong.
Renfield: There are no mirrors. Can someone help me shave?

Harker: There are creepy women in the castle. I am terrified and aroused.
Renfield: There are creepy women in the castle. Did I upset them?

Harker: The count gets intense when I bleed. He's dangerous.
Renfield: The count gets intense when I bleed. He cares!

Given the choice, Dracula picks the familiar with no hazard avoidance skills.

Chapter 15: Cabin

Now…

Renfield blinked down at the silverware spread out on the table before him.

He must have been polishing it. There was a cloth in his hand. The pieces were laid out in piles of polished and unpolished objects.

He couldn’t for the life of him remember having sat down to the task.

Or where he was.

He glanced around, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar place.

Not a kitchen or dining hall. Drawing room? No, they weren’t called those anymore.

Did houses still have drawing rooms?

Hadn’t he and Master been at a party in one just the other week?

With Lady… what was her name? Master had fed off her daughter.

That didn’t narrow it down, really.

And… what was he wearing? He drew a finger tentatively across the wool.

The colors were pretty. Was it alright to wear colors now? He couldn’t recall what was allowed.

He set the cloth carefully down, folding it into a neat square between the pieces.

He took a deep breath, tensing and touching his chest as he did.

No pain. Why had he expected pain?

His whole body shook as he pushed himself upright, but his legs seemed to be working.

Just… weak.

With one hand on the wall, he walked carefully, taking care not to jostle his head which felt as if it could tumble off at any moment.

It wasn’t a big house. Not the large, grand affairs Master favored.

Warm and cozy. Old wood walls.

Not centuries old. Not in this country.

Country? Which country?

Master liked houses with history. This might not have held centuries of memories, but there had been people here. Generations of stories.

Souls.

He pushed through a door and found himself in a kitchen.

Master was at the stove stirring something, and wasn’t that a sight.

Not… completely unexpected. He’d seen Master cook before.

Surprisingly for one who didn’t eat, he was rather skilled at it. A method he’d used to attract a few victims when he’d been in the mood for a long game instead of immediate gratification.

But there weren’t any victims here. No one else in the house as far as Renfield could assess.

Which meant the only person Dracula could be cooking for was…

He moved forward too fast, bent on taking over the task which surely he should have been doing himself. His head spun, and he seized the edge of the kitchen table for support.

Dracula glanced in his direction. “Sit down. This will be done in a moment.”

Renfield pitched into the nearest chair even as he tried to protest. “I should do that, Master.” He raised a hand to his head, resting its too-intense weight in his palm to keep from dropping entirely to the table.

If Master answered, Renfield didn’t hear. The next thing he knew was Master pushing his arm out of the way to set a bowl in front of him.

Master settled into an adjacent chair, watching Renfield expectantly.

Renfield gazed meekly back, waiting for any direction to make the situation make sense.

“Eat,” Dracula prompted with a quiet order.

Renfield fumbled for a spoon, still looking hesitantly up at his master several times before bringing the first bite to his mouth.

Warmth and taste flooded his senses, abruptly making everything seem alright despite the strangeness.

He ate steadily, glancing at Master from time to time for confirmation that his actions were permitted. Dracula never gave him any reassurance, but he never scowled either. Just… watched Renfield with an unblinking steadiness.

As the spoon scraped against the empty bottom, Renfield set it down cautiously and braced both hands against the edge of the table.

He ought to get up and do the dishes. Clean the kitchen. Ask if Dracula had hunted or if Renfield ought to go out.

For all he knew, he’d already hunted by daylight, and something had happened to leave him reeling.

If only he could remember…

“Are you with me?” Master asked in the silence.

Renfield’s heart stuttered.

That was what Master had kept asking after the asylum. During those months in which Renfield’s mind had frequently drifted rudderless in the misty sea of lost memories.

Was that where they were? Had the asylum been more recent than it felt?

No… he had memories of after.

Unless those weren’t true.

He shook his head, aware that he needed to answer the question.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Master prompted.

“Umm…” Renfield tried to grasp onto one of the swirling fragments. “There was a war. They called it the great one… I told someone it was in Iraq. But that isn’t right. We were in France?” He glanced up for confirmation.

Dracula’s expression didn’t offer any hints.

Renfield stared back at the empty bowl. “There were men in wolf masks,” he continued slowly, one memory tying itself to another. “One of them was…”

His mind stuttered out at the image of someone else drinking down a centipede.

Someone else at his master’s side.

Someone else because he’d… he’d…

“Don’t think about that,” Dracula said sharply. “Not tonight.”

Renfield shook himself back to the present and raised his eyes apprehensively for directions.

“Your memories are improving.”

“They are?”

“Well… they’re focused more on the current century at least.”

“Oh.” Renfield’s hand strayed up his chest, touching a phantom pain near his collarbone.

“Stop doing that!” Dracula snarled with fury enough to make Renfield cower. “I healed those weeks ago. Stop… remembering.”

Renfield shook, the conflict of recent the command to recite his memories conflicting with this order to forget.

Dracula huffed moodily and stalked across the room. “I’m going hunting.”

Renfield’s eyes flicked up from the table. “Should I…?”

“You’re to stay here. No leaving the house. Go… get back to cleaning. There’s laundry to do as well.”

Renfield breathed out a flicker of relief that at least he seemed to have a purpose, no matter the state of his mind.

What had caused it?

And why did Master seem so… strange?

And… was that shirt green? Since when did Master wear colors?

The vampire was gone in a rush, leaving Renfield struggling to breathe in the vacuum the absence caused.

He rose cautiously and collected the dishes. He took his time in washing, looking into cabinets and the refrigerator as he worked his way around the room.

Only food for himself. No blood bags.

They’d have to move sooner if Master was hunting regularly. That was how the hunters always found them…

Flashes of memories. A blue-white protection circle. Kicking his shoe through the powder. And another circle. Stepping carefully over it with bonesaw in hand…

He sank to the ground, clutching his head and reciting the classifications of as many spiders as he could think of until his heart stopped trying to pound its way out of his chest.

He’d done something. Something terrible.

Shouldn’t he be dead…?

Another flash. Master lifting him out of a freezing cascade of water stained red with blood. Master shouting his name and shaking him. Master…

The memories were gone as quickly as they’d come, leaving Renfield blinking vacantly at the kitchen floor and wondering what country he was in.

And what year.

Hadn’t they been at a concert recently? An easy place to pick off teenagers whose families had no idea where they were and wouldn’t start searching for them until days too late.

Or a train? That incident with customs - the baggage handlers demanding Renfield open the massive box while he begged every way he could think of to leave it alone.

That hadn’t ended well.

He dragged himself upright, repeating a mantra that he had work to do, and nothing else mattered but completing it.

It took a little while to find the washing machine and longer to fill up a load. He explored the house, finding it to be a two-bedroom cabin of simple comfort and not the opulence of a fine mansion or villa.

He’d seen it before, hadn’t he? Online at least. Maybe in person.

Yes… he’d toured here when he’d purchased it. Liked that it was set well into the woods but close enough between two population centers to provide convenient hunting and multiple hospitals within a few hours’ drive.

Woods meant campers. Disappearances easily made to look like accidents. Cities meant homeless encampments.

Always best to start with those who wouldn’t be quickly missed when they moved to a new area.

Renfield felt a flicker of guilt as he poured detergent into the washer. A shame that the rich were so well protected. If Dracula could cull more parasitical CEOs and multi-millionaires, life would probably be better for everyone.

But survival meant anonymity, and teen runaways and homeless veterans were the more sensible targets.

He hoped the vampire was being careful without Renfield paring down the chances of a feeding frenzy. How had Dracula kept himself concealed for the past decades without Renfield…

He found he’d been staring at his shaking hands while the washing machine quivered beneath him for… at least ten minutes if the timer was indication.

Better find something else to do if his mind was liable to drift without focus.

He returned to polishing the silver, delighted to find a laptop sitting nearby. He clicked on the first video he saw and let the algorithm do what it pleased as he worked.

Just some noise. Just something to keep the memories at bay.

Master wanted him to remember… or remember some things. Renfield could feel his mind skirting away from something huge and horrible anytime his thoughts started to wander. Something Dracula hadn’t seemed any happier for Renfield to acknowledge than Renfield currently felt.

Well then. Don’t think about that.

Remember the good times.

He found a few gramophone recordings and let his mind slip back to pleasant nights of teaching Dracula English dances when they’d been laying low in rural England after that business with the Harkers (something else he’d rather not remember, actually). Renfield had been an awkward partner with rudimentary enough knowledge for Dracula to eventually recruit an actual instructor – someone who’d been scandalized that the count had insisted upon practicing the steps with his servant – a male servant no less.

The instructor had survived his tenure of employment, but within a fortnight he’d left letters to his family that he was going abroad and had disappeared.

Renfield wondered absently if anyone had ever found the body. He’d been rather proud of himself for remembering a penny dreadful he’d read about hiding bodies in an underground crypt and had stacked a dozen or so to decompose alongside the honored dead.

It was funny sometimes to wonder how many of his stockpiles still lay untouched across the world – cellars he’d filled with corpses and then demolished the houses on their way of town to bury the evidence in a heap of rubble; cemeteries in which coffins often contained an extra person or two; lye pits and bogs and sinkholes that he’d stuffed until they were full.

Pig farms had been useful. Still were. He’d helped many a farm - both family owned and factorized - keep their stock full and healthy with no extra work for the farmers.

Making use of factory fires or floods as opportunities to leave a few bodies battered beyond recognition without having to hide them had always been something to keep a lookout for. And of course wars. Nothing like mass graves to hide evidence that some of the soldiers hadn’t died of bullet wounds.

He was rather proud of how skilled he’d gotten at making corpses disappear and getting bloodstains out of just about anything.

He was folding the laundry when Dracula returned. Renfield hurried to help him out of his coat, struck again by the strangeness of the material and modern style.

The vampire was subdued enough for Renfield to worry that his hunting had gone poorly, but Dracula waved aside his concerns. He cast himself onto the sofa, picking up a book and ostensibly reading, although Renfield felt his master’s eyes following him each time he passed through the room.

With the laundry put away, he nervously approached the count, expecting to be ordered away as had become so typical before… whatever it was that was making his mind shudder.

Instead, Dracula gestured toward the floor, and Renfield sank beside him, leaning gratefully against his master’s leg.

Renfield had chosen this position long before – back when they were still in Transylvania. Dracula hadn’t expected his familiar to constantly grovel at his feet, but Renfield had craved the contact comfort so much that it had become habit – a way for him to stay close without bothering whatever Dracula was doing.

Now here they were nearly two centuries later, Renfield still certain he never felt safer than resting at his master’s feet with Dracula’s claws occasionally swirling through his hair.

He could have found a book of his own to pass the time, but just sitting like this was comfortable enough to fill him with contentment.

The music played quietly in the background, old songs from times half remembered. Renfield’s mind drifted quietly, no longer concerned with how he’d reached this place and time.

That’s what he tried to tell himself at least.

But too many memories threatened him with fears of losing the only security he could imagine.

“I did something,” he said sluggishly. “Something terrible.” He looked up at the vampire. “Didn’t I?”

Dracula laid aside his book. “Yes,” he said carefully as if wary to express any emotion.

Renfield shuddered. “Did you punish me?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you going to?”

“I…” Dracula looked away, his face pinching with a look of uncertainty that Renfield had never seen before. “I’m not sure anymore.”

Renfield’s trembling redoubled. He pressed closer to his master’s leg, letting out a relieved gasp as Dracula’s hand settled at the back of his neck. He leaned into the touch, not caring if it turned violent so long as it was there.

“I still don’t understand why you ran off,” the count mused, his hand beginning to massage small circles that led Renfield’s mind into a stupor as easily as the vampire’s power could have. “You knew what it would do to your mind. Was finding yourself such an important occupation as to risk your sanity?”

There was a pause. The music continued to play softly.

“I thought about leaving you to the outcome.” Dracula continued in his quiet tone. “You wouldn’t be the first familiar I’ve left to destroy their own mind. Always interesting to check in on them after a few decades to see what remains. Someone always bashed their skulls in before they were complete vegetables, so I’m not sure how long the process would properly take. I’ve sometimes thought about experimenting with that.” He laughed softly. “Isn’t it curious to have all the time in the world and still put things off indefinitely?

“It would have served you right if I’d left you. You didn’t deserve a quick death. And you certainly don’t deserve forgiveness. I told you the last time you turned on me that I don’t give second chances.” Dracula looked down at him. “And yet, here we are. Acting as if I intend to give you a third.”

Renfield gazed somberly back, awaiting the weighing of his fate without imagining speaking a word in his defense.

It was all out of his hands.

Dracula’s fingers stroked silent patterns over his neck for a time. “You were right when you suggested I find more to this life.” He sighed. “It’s difficult not to grow complacent after so long a life. That’s part of why I’ve always taken companions. Someone who can walk the world with me with new eyes. And then…” His hand slid around to cup Renfield’s jaw. “…you came along.” He gave his head a small and baffled shake. “How did you become a necessity?”

Somewhere in a distant corner of his mind, Renfield thought he heard a voice talking of controlling and manipulative relationships. Of partners who would consume his whole self and continue taking, taking, taking until he had nothing left to give. Who would set impossible standards that he could never meet but would keep him striving with just enough kindness to make him feel dependent on their good opinion.

He heard the voices… and he pushed them aside and leaned further into Dracula’s touch.

His master hummed a soft note of approval, his thumb working patterns just below Renfield’s ear and causing a pleasant shiver to run across his skin.

“You should have told me you were feeling unsatisfied. I don’t know what those humans said to you that made you believe I wouldn’t listen. And perhaps I did overreact to your desire to experience life beyond seeing to my needs, but the revelation did come rather abruptly. If you hadn’t approached me when I was still so unwell… things might have gone differently. We’ll never know how I might have responded if you hadn’t been so impulsive. Instead… off you went thinking you could manage without me.” He shook his head sadly. “Oh, Servant. You’ve seen what happens when I’m not there to take care of you. Did you truly wish to test your boundaries again?”

A small whimper sounded from the back of Renfield’s throat. Tears were already prickling at the corners of his eyes, whether brought on by the gentle touch or the shame of his own doubts, he couldn’t say.

Dracula pulled him closer, encouraging Renfield to lay his head in his lap where Renfield was more than willing to go. His master’s fingers stroked through his hair, slow and rhythmic.

“We’ll stay here until your mind improves.” He tilted Renfield’s head so that their eyes met. “And then I’ll punish you.”

Renfield felt the finality of that declaration plunge low in the pit of his stomach.

“And once that’s over…”

Renfield’s eyes shot up with a surge of anxiety and hope.

“…then it’ll be time for me to find a new place in this new world. And you, my precious servant…”

Renfield trembled, barely daring to meet his master’s serious expression.

The silent look vanished with a smile that brought such kindness to the surface.

“…you’ll be at my side. Forever.”

Renfield kissed his master’s hands and whispered broken thanks as the tears flowed freely.

As dawn threatened, Dracula retreated to his coffin, dismissing Renfield with instructions to sleep.

The other bedroom had clearly been set up for Renfield’s use. But there was a blanket folded beside the coffin. And Renfield could remember enough in his still-swirling head to know he hadn’t been scolded for sleeping there.

Grateful beyond measure for these new hopes for the future, Renfield curled up at his master’s side to await the coming darkness.

Chapter 16: I Followed Him into the Mist

Before...

There was rushing darkness.

Plunging. Whether he fell into it, or the darkness rushed up to him, he couldn’t say.

Emptiness. A descent into an eternal pit of no gravity or conclusion or hope.

He’d have screamed if he had voice. If he understood the darkness enough to funnel his terror into anything resembling words.

At least that would have been noise in the emptiness.

Would it be better to try?

At least it would be something.

He opened his mouth –

---

“Stop screaming, or I’ll crush your skull again, and this time I won’t repair it!”

Reality erupted around him in darkness with shape and form.

And claws.

Claws which were currently clamped into the skin around his mouth, a large palm smothering the breath and screams.

Renfield tried to recoil, but movement brought with it a thousand bolts of pain. His vision swam back towards darkness, and he would have voiced his agony if he’d had breath enough or if Dracula’s claws hadn’t been so deep into his mind as well as skin as to terrify him beyond all thought of vocalizing.

A moment of silence, the looming bringer of death crouched over him, watching for any sign of defiance. Cautiously, he withdrew his hand.

Renfield, too consumed with pain and fright, could only stare in silent terror back at his god and await his sentence.

“You dared challenge me,” Dracula hissed, his voice a whisper that rang to the depths of Renfield’s soul.

Renfield tried to shake his head, but the slightest movement caused an explosion of fresh pain that burst white-bright in his dark mind.

Dracula still watched him, those furious red eyes gleaming through the pain to consume all.

Unable to speak, Renfield helplessly tried to convey up a sense of remorse and shame to the one who could read his every thought.

Perhaps Dracula read the emotions, for he backed off a fraction more. “Fool. I made you. I own you. I can destroy you. You could never hope to succeed against me.”

I know! I’m sorry! I know better. Truly. I’ve just been alone so long…

Not an excuse. Not a good reason for the servant to fail at waiting patiently for the master’s command.

There was no good reason to object to the master’s treatment of him. To object to his choice of undead companions. To defy him…

His mind faltered, struggling to light onto something beside the pain and shame. To a time when he’d been happy. Safe. Back… back…

---

---

“Are you certain you want to play another round, Sir? You seem tired.”

Robert looked worriedly across the board to his host, noticing once more how ashen and aged the count appeared. The count’s appearance had deteriorated the last few days – ever since the blizzard had sprung up, trapping them within the castle walls.

“It is nothing, Renfield. Set the board. It will distract me.”

Robert obeyed, still glancing up frequently to Dracula. “Are you cold? I could fetch you a blanket. Or a hot drink?”

The count shuddered and closed his eyes with a visible grimace of pain at this.

Robert sat up straighter with fresh alarm. “You’re hungry, Sir? Is that it? Can I help you in some way?”

Dracula opened one eye, surveying him with an orb of distressingly bloodshot hues. “You do not know what you offer.”

Robert scooted forward to the edge of his seat, gazing back with naked earnestness. “Sir, if there’s anything I can do for you, I would.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course,” Robert promised easily.

“I…” The count hesitated, “…hunger.”

Robert nodded eagerly. “How can I help, Sir?”

Dracula studied him for a long moment, seeming to weigh several options. “Go lie down on the sofa.”

“Sir?”

“If you truly wish to assist me, do as I say.”

Baffled, Robert obeyed.

The count followed and crouched beside Robert’s head. He rested one hand over the young man’s heart. “This? I may touch here?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Your neck as well?”

“Of course. But what-”

“Hush, Renfield. Be at peace.”

Peace seemed to flow into him at the words, driving away any confusion at the certainty that whatever was happening was as it should be. Robert smiled sleepily as he saw the count’s mouth dip towards his neck.

Even the stab of pain didn’t awaken him from the euphoric certainty that all was as it should be.

The world faded to black…

---

Robert awoke to a splash of brandy across his lips and the count’s voice urging him to drink. He obeyed blearily, grateful for the hands holding him steady amidst the whirling world.

It took several minutes before he could sit up, leaning heavily against Dracula as he accepted the food pressed upon him. He reached a hand up to his neck in search of remembered pain… but there was nothing to find.

Dracula looked much better. He moved with confident energy and looked almost younger than he had at the start of the evening.

Robert stared, trying to make his tumbled memories make sense. If felt as if he shouldn’t remember, but…

“You took my blood,” he said slowly.

Dracula didn’t falter as he poured Robert a fresh drink. “Yes.”

“You… that’s what you eat?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Robert gulped the brandy gratefully even as his host cautioned him to moderation.

His mind was racing, and also very fuzzy.

Conflicting images warred in his mind. The host and employer who had treated him with such care and kindness compared against…

Dracula as Robert had seen him once after those women (had that been real?!) had attacked. And other things. The way the servants had pointed to their necks and warned Robert repeatedly about… something before they’d vanished. The caravan leader who brought the supplies and carried away the mail treating the count with such fearful reverence. The dark shape Robert had sometimes seen outside the castle that seemed to float or run impossibly fast. Even the way the wolves answered back when Dracula bayed to them from the castle wall.

Signs aplenty that his host was more than an eccentric nobleman living in so remote a home.

He shook with sudden certainty that he knew too much. “Are… are you going to kill me?”

Dracula, who had been stirring up the fire, paused and smiled gently at him.

A smile with a great deal of teeth… but somehow still as reassuring as it had always been.

“I hope it will not come to that. I enjoy your company and hoped I would have it all winter.” He came to sit beside Robert, leaving scant inches between them. “But, you understand I’ll have to prevent you should you do something foolish like running into this storm.”

Robert blinked up at him, searching desperately for the kindness he’d clung to night after night since he’d come here. To the man who’d treated him with more respect and shown more concern for his welfare than anyone else he’d ever known.

After a long moment of tense waiting, Dracula lifted his hand. Keeping his movements slow, he slid the hand into its accustomed spot cupped around Robert’s cheek.

Without conscious thought, Robert leaned into the touch, his eyes immediately sinking to half lids.

Dracula chuckled softly. “Such a good boy,” he murmured, laughing further at the bewildered and hungry eyes Robert lifted toward him. “Fear not, Renfield. You are safe from death in my presence. Always. Lie back down. Rest. You have given me a great gift, now I will take care of you.”

Robert found himself swaddled in a blanket and curled in comforting warmth without even noticing the change.

“Perhaps,” he heard the count muse as sleep claimed him. “When you awaken, you will have an even greater gift to lay at my feet.”

---

“I have lived a long time,” Dracula said as Robert hungrily ate the food the count had placed before him after Robert had slept all day and well into the night. “It is a lonely existence. Traveling. Seeing such wonders. Sometimes I have chosen companions to journey with me.”

“Companions? Like the… the women I saw?”

Dracula grimaced. “I hoped you would not remember. Yes, Renfield. They are as I am. Made by me in my loneliness.”

Robert clutched the edge of the table and trembled. “Is that… is that what will happen to me?”

“No, sweet boy, no. You are too warm and alive for that. I would not make you like them.”

Robert breathed out a relieved breath, though the tension didn’t ebb from his rigid shoulders.

His mind was a whirl, both clinging to what he’d given as the right thing to do for someone who had been unbelievably kind, and also terrified to realize how helpless and vulnerable he was trapped with someone who could end his existence with a flick of his claws.

Dracula’s hand massaged the back of his neck, occasionally straying to rub further down Robert’s spine and ease the tension from him.

True to his word, Dracula had never touched Robert without permission. Always asking, always waiting for Robert’s consent before he explored any lower.

Robert’s defenses had been dropping steadily under this polite attention. Some days in his bed, he found his body writhing and his mind dreaming. Dreaming of hands he shouldn’t want on him. Of a face he shouldn’t want over him. Of one it was entirely wrong to desire…

…and yet he desired.

“I am very pleased with the dedication you’ve shown thus far in your work for me. And last night, you offered me such a vital service. I would give you a gift.”

Robert’s eyes flicked up to meet the count’s. “A gift, Sir?”

“Yes. A proposition. And more.” Dracula’s fingers laced through his hair, sending hungry shivers down his spine. “Tell me. Do you still wish to return to London?”

Robert blinked. “Of course.”

“Why?”

“My… my life is there. My family. My parents. My job…”

“Do you miss any of them?”

“What? Of course. That’s… that’s my life.”

“Your life could be more.”

“Sir?”

Dracula released him and leaned back in his chair. “You have told me about how your employers overwork you for little pay. How your family reviled you all your life. How you see everyone – your siblings, your coworkers, your school fellows – rising in the world, while you, the faithful worker, are left behind.”

Robert wrapped his arms around his chest.

“I can offer you a chance to be so much more. Entrance into the society which has shunned you. Travel to places you have never imagined. Witness wonders so few experience. You’ll eat at the finest tables, drink the best wine, dress to impress any who look your way.”

Robert looked up doubtfully at this.

Dracula paused to give him a long look, then spoke again in a gentler and less tempting tone. “I would give you a place to belong. You would be in the service of someone who would not take your labor for granted. Who would see you fed and cared for and made whole should injuries ever befall you. Who would want you safely at my side. Forever.”

Robert swallowed hard. “As your… companion?”

“Familiar, Renfield. A different role, but one you would be well suited to fulfill. The process brings with it certain powers as well to make you far more than you are now.”

“Process?” Robert echoed nervously.

“Ah. Yes.” Dracula smiled affably at him. “You understand, my secrets are my own. They could not be shared. Should you enter fully into my service, you would be bound to me so that I might share my abilities with you. Once the rites are completed, you would be wholly mine.” He watched Robert for a long moment. “And you would never be alone again.”

Robert’s breath quickened as he gazed into eyes which held such hidden depths and strengths. How could he not lean hungrily toward them? Desire them? Except… “But, my family. My wife. Daughter. They’re dependent on me.”

“And you would provide for them just as you are. Your services would deserve compensation. You may continue sending money to them as long as you like. And once we move to England…” He shrugged. “They would be with you again.”

“Oh.” Robert blinked. It didn’t sound bad at all, really. The truth was… he’d been happier these past few months with the count than he’d been anywhere else.

If this was the price to remain here – where he felt such belonging and comfort – if this was the price to see his family provided for beyond anything the solicitor office would ever offer, if this was the price to receive wonders the world over and the count’s so gentle touch…

“Yes,” he whispered.

Dracula looked at him inquisitively. “You would be mine?”

Robert swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

The count rose and helped the still shaky man to his feet. “Come then. We will answer your desire at once.

---

It hurt.

The count made him strip and bound him in a frigid stone ring deep in the bowels of the castle. He made meticulous incisions with a knife of stone while Robert cried silent, frozen tears and tried to minimize his shaking for fear of the count cutting too deep.

Dracula crouched over him, drinking more of his blood, then spitting it into a cup and slicing his own wrist to intermingle man and vampire’s. He chanted over it words Renfield couldn’t have hoped to understand even if his head hadn’t been reeling. When the cup was pressed to his lips, he lapped the contents with plaintive glances up at the count, silently begging for this to end even as he obediently gulped down every drop pressed upon him.

Even worse was the spider.

Something enormous and scrambling drenched in the count's blood that fought all the way down Robert’s throat while his stomach tried to reject it and Dracula pinned his mouth closed with an iron-strong grip.

He answered yes to every droning question the count asked as he chanted over him.

Yes, he would serve with his whole heart, and mind, and body.

Yes, he would give up his whole self, his will, his soul to the one who had claimed him.

Yes, he would follow with devotion and loyalty all the days of his life and into death and beyond.

Yes, he would obey every command, serve forever at the pleasure of he who called Robert his own.

He would accept all restrictions placed upon him, accept the place assigned to him, serve no matter the lowness of difficulty of the task.

He would be all his creator wished him to be.

His mind was so far beyond his body before it was over that he didn’t think he’d ever find it again. That frozen and broken form collapsed somewhere in the darkness of a forbidden castle. Better to fly away from it and never return.

He found himself in a grey place, surrounded by shades who reached out to him. Who called him their brother. Who welcomed him to their ranks.

But then a voice called him to waking. A voice he could not deny.

He awoke with frantically heaving lungs, his body burning and shivering and twitching as if electrified. One hand flopped out, crashing straight through a fallen chunk of marble. He sat up slowly, staring in bafflement at the pulverized stone, his unharmed hand clutched to his chest.

Nothing seemed damaged. No wounds, no scars. Even the dizziness of the blood loss had faded away.

He rose to his feet, a tingle of energy and exhilaration coursing through his veins.

“Renfield.”

His head shot up, finding the eyes he’d known… and never known until this moment gazing back at him.

This being was so much more than he’d realized. So powerful and ancient and… beyond the words he knew.

“Kneel,” the voice which was everything commanded.

His knees buckled nearly of their own accord, and he sank at the being’s feet. He gazed up in awe for another second before realizing that he was unworthy to do so.

The worshipper never meant to gaze upon the full might of their god.

“Sir-” he started to say, but the word choked itself in his mouth.

No. No, that was not enough. Not for the respect owed. Not for the relationship as it was.

“Master,” he whispered as he bowed his head low, and with the utterance, he felt the past slip away.

Everything which had come before, the people and flimsy power struggles and demands cast upon him… it all fell away as a meaningless prelude to this moment.

Here he was now. Reborn. Now to be whatever Master wished him to be.

A hand was laid across his head in firm benediction as the master accepted the fealty of the slave.

“Good boy,” Dracula murmured. “I’m pleased.”

---

---

Renfield gasped as his mind swam back to the present. Gasped and tried not to scream, for his master was carrying him none too gently through a house filled with gloom and shadows and swirling dust.

“They sealed the casket against me,” Dracula grumbled as he entered a room and slammed Renfield’s broken body against a long box that smelled of earth. “One of your arms had better still work. Get rid of the rubbish. Now.”

Renfield fumbled frantically. One arm didn’t respond at all, but the other twitched at his prompting, and though the effort make his mind go white-blind with pain, he still scrambled his hand over the lid, brushing away sprigs of greenery and crucifixes and wafer crackers and leaving the floor on the far side of the coffin scattered with them.

Dracula flipped him over, pinning him on his back to the lid. One hand once more smothered his mouth. The other seized his working arm and-

Snap.

Renfield screamed and arched despite his mind wailing to be silent. He stifled the cries down to ragged panting, glancing apologetically up at his master before shamefully looking away, unworthy he well knew to meet the count’s eyes.

Dracula shoved a handkerchief into his mouth, tied it in place with another, then flung him to the ground with a dismissive blow of his hand.

Renfield crumpled, his already shattered spine splintering anew and fragmented ribs threatening to puncture his lungs if he dared breathe more than shallow pants.

“If you manage to attract attention enough for those fools next door to come over here, you had better kill yourself,” his master snarled just before turning to mist and flowing into the casket. “It will be kinder than what I’ll do if you cross me again.”

Renfield could only stare blankly at the floor, his body aflame with more agony than he’d encountered in all his years of servitude.

And he couldn’t remember at all why he’d thought it was worth it to turn against the kindest master he’d ever known.

Notes:

Title this time is from Lucy's song in Dracula The Musical.

Sorry, but I'm going to take next week off. I have the next few chapters written, but I want to be sure where the story is going before I release them into the wild, and yesterday and today turned out to be extra long work days instead of ample writing time like I hoped. We'll return to the present on September 24th. Take care of yourselves until then! I appreciate hearing so many people's thoughts on this story so much.

Chapter 17: Test

Notes:

Several trigger warnings on this one. Jump down to the bottom if you're concerned.

Now...

“Renfield.”

Renfield shot awake, his head coming up to blink blearily at the vampire looming over him.

The room was dark, and Dracula was fully dressed. Meaning he’d been awake for some time.

Renfield scrambled up from his tangled blanket beside the coffin. “Master! I’m sorry! I-”

Dracula planted a finger against his lips. “Hush, pet. You needed your rest. Are you ready?’

Renfield quivered. “Y… yes, Master,” he whispered.

“Good. Come.”

On his master’s heels, Renfield quit the cabin with a final glance behind to wonder if he’d ever see this refuge again.

A car was idling outside, the driver standing at attention, staring straight ahead with glazed eyes.

Dracula put a hand on Renfield’s elbow and guided him to the trunk. “Inside.”

Renfield certainly wasn’t about to protest, even as he trembled to cram inside the dark and airless space.

His master brushed a claw over his forehead. “Sleep. When you waken, your task begins.”

Renfield stared back into the red-fleck orbs containing his last glimpse of hope before darkness swamped his senses, and he knew no more.

---

He awoke cold and aching, damp grass tickling his exposed skin as dew dripped across his eyelids.

He rolled onto his elbows, gazing blankly into the grey of predawn.

A front lawn of clipped grass. A suburban neighborhood of the pristine and ordered variety.

Not the place which would conceal an underweight man in pajama pants.

He scrambled to his feet, the rustle of paper making him glance down to discover a note pinned to his shirt.

At least it didn’t appear to say ‘Free to a good home’.

He fled into the nearest hedge row and crammed himself between the house and the greenery. Once concealed, he unpinned the note and squinted at the message.

An address. Followed by – ‘Drain and bottle the resident. Wait for collection at nightfall.’

Renfield flopped backwards into the dirt.

How? How could he possibly…?

But he would, of course. It was his only chance.

Only chance at redemption.

He took stock of himself as he grubbed beneath the bushes for larva and caterpillars.

What did he have? The clothes on his back, and they would draw attention as outdoor wear. One pin. One piece of paper… and that was it.

And he was expected to find his way in a strange city to a strange house and quickly and quietly murder and harvest the resident in the span of… maybe twelve hours.

The chances of failure seemed insurmountable.

He studied the address for a long time, then folded it into his pocket, rose, dusted himself off, and set off in a random direction.

He was not, he found with a sinking heart once he located a street sign, on the correct road. And he had no idea how to find the correct road.

Or a hardware store. Thrift store. Grocery store. Really, anything more than what he had would be useful.

One thing at a time. Get away from here and get his bearings to start with.

Energized on the first bugs he’d eaten since Master had retrieved him, he hurried off at a trot and tried to look like any early morning (shoeless) jogger… not like someone still recovering from confinement and self-imposed starvation.

It took a few miles, following the general direction that the early morning cars seemed to be going, before residential began to give way to businesses. In the meantime, his scrutiny of every piece of trash had yielded a stub of pencil, and he wrote down the names of every street he passed, creating a limited map of the area as he went along.

He picked a shabby auto mechanic store for his first break-in, jiggling the lock with the pin until it clicked.

You didn’t live a lifestyle like Renfield’s without picking up a few tricks.

All he really wanted was an unlocked computer, and he was not disappointed.

A search yielded him a map and directions to his target… several miles further on.

Master wasn’t making this easy.

The shop offered an array of weapons, but Renfield left them where they lay as he printed the instructions, stole a pen, a worn pair of shoes, and a small empty plastic container.

Having taken what he hoped wouldn’t be notice, he locked the door behind him and trudged onward.

The sun was rising, and more people were around to glance askance at his unbrushed hair and too-thin clothes. He kept his eyes fastened ahead, pretending as if there was nothing off about him.

Occasionally he veered toward flower boxes, collecting a few grasshoppers and spiders to shove into the container.

They’d probably eat each other before he could, but their presence – and occasional energy burst – was comforting.

The business district turned back into another neighborhood – cookie-cutter houses, precisely trimmed lawns, sparse vegetation for hiding.

Renfield found his target at last, already footsore and ready for the day to be over. He trudged past the house without stopping, scanning it from the corner of his eye.

Nothing to distinguish it from the others. Nothing to tell him how many people lived there or if they were home.

This was not how he liked hunting at all!

No resources, no planning. A neighborhood that was probably filled with nosy old ladies who watched out their windows.

But this house had been chosen by the master.

And that was the beginning and end of what Renfield needed to know.

He went around the block, eyeing the house from its backside. There were lights on in the target house, but the house behind it was dark. He took a chance and sauntered up the drive, made his way around it, and approached the target between a gap in the back fence and a decorative hedge. There he waited, unable to see much but lingering where he’d be aware if the inhabitants departed.

And departed they did – one woman at least. He felt the rumble of the garage door and tensed into a runner’s crouch. Then the car appeared, the driver with her head craned backwards to watch the road.

That was the best chance he was liable to get. He sprang up and raced around the corner as fast as he could, darting into the garage just before the door closed.

Sealed inside, he slumped against the door, panting heavily.

The garage was windowless – unfortunate that. The overhead light still gleamed, though it wouldn’t stay for long. Renfield forced himself to his feet in time to find the light switch and flipped it on.

He poked about as quickly and carefully as he could.

If he’d had more time to plan, certainly he would have brought supplies. Knife. Rope. Buckets. A funnel. Empty milk jugs.

As it stood, he’d have to manage with whatever he could find.

And that left him feeling terrifically unprepared as he removed the string from the lawn mower and caged all the spiders he could find.

A little more work of constructing a hiding place for himself, making a half-hearted effort to shake the dust out of a bucket, and then there was nothing to do but turn the lights out and sit in darkness for the long hours until the target returned.

And try not to let his mind overwhelm him in the interim.

The past few months had been wonderful. Master had been so gentle and patient. So caring while Renfield had been unsteady, then so approving when Renfield had begun resuming all his duties.

So many nights spent curled in Master’s lap. Master’s long fingers threading through his hair while they reminisced over old times. Master, so helpful in piecing memories back together, navigating Renfield’s troubled mind with more skill than the damaged familiar could manage on his own. Master, so gently teasing those wonderful early memories to the forefront, placing them in positions of honor where Renfield could clearly see the love and care he’d always been given.

And the darker memories – his cruel life before Dracula, the asylum, his life away from his master while his mind fell apart – Master tutted so sympathetically over what a failure Renfield was anywhere besides where he belonged. Reinforced night after night how right it was for Renfield to be at his master’s feet, how anywhere else would ruin him.

How much of a mistake Renfield had made in trying to find a life of his own.

Renfield spent his days in desperate and apologetic service, greeted every night with the kindness he never should have fled.

How could he ever have turned against his wonderful master?

Tonight, things would change. This was his test. Proof of his devotion. Of his worthiness to be saved. Once the test was completed, Master would judge him. And then there would be punishment for the suffering he’d put his beloved master through – Dracula at last receiving his brokenness and blood as the retribution the vampire was due.

And then…

Forgiveness.

Or not so much forgiven as the incident would be forgotten. Dracula had a limited ability to care about anything not immediately in front of his eyes. So long as Renfield never gave him cause to remember that his familiar had twice turned on him, Dracula would maintain a certainty that Renfield ever acting against his master’s best interest was utterly inconceivable.

Everything would be back to normal.

Was that what he wanted?

There was a tiny, wavering voice from somewhere deep inside him, somewhere he tried hard night after night to smother, that persisted in whispering that something wasn’t right. That there’d been a reason he’d done as he’d done… even if he couldn’t remember it now. A reason he’d believed it right and good to turn on the one who loved him so dearly and showed him so much favor. A reason he’d betrayed his vows and fled even when he knew his master still lived.

Reasons utterly lost now.

All he heard in his mind anymore was the mercy and kindness of the master, of how deserving he was of praise and service. Of Renfield’s own inadequacy. Of how much less he deserved than what he was benevolently given.

Of how undeserving he was of forgiveness.

And how could he not want forgiveness? After how good Dracula had been to him in his weakness? After how tenderly the master had rebuilt his mind?

How could he not serve with complete devotion?

Dracula was his past, present, future. His god forever on into eternity. He was meant to serve as long as it pleased his master to permit him breath, and then await his pleasure in the afterlife, the eternal and constant slave of one who deserved his praise forever and always, amen.

He’d given his soul. He’d sworn himself to this. He’d turned away and failed. That it pleased the master to give him a second chance was a beyond generous opportunity to prove that he knew who held his chain.

And that he would never resist its pull again.

So here he was, patiently waiting to kill for his master’s pleasure.

It wouldn’t be the best meal he’d ever brought Dracula. Master preferred he brought prey in alive. Blood was never so delicious once taken from the body. And he had no way to keep it fresh.

But that wasn’t the point. Master wanted proof Renfield would kill for him. Proof he was still a good servant.

He would do whatever Master demanded.

The hours passed slowly and painfully, the garage growing colder and damper as Renfield’s body cooled. He ate bugs periodically to keep from falling asleep, trying to count out the passage of time to prevent himself from swallowing them all before his target arrived.

Sometimes there were noises. He counted cars moving past, tensing whenever one drew near. Distant voices and animals. Sunlight filtering under the door in wavering patterns.

He’d had plenty of experience of being confined in dull spaces.

It never got easier.

His thoughts turned over and around and never gave in a second’s peace until at last he was broken from reflection by the light flicking on and the garage door rumbling open.

He crouched low and tense as the car pulled into the garage, a single person inside.

Female. Rather petite. Probably in her fifties.

Odd choice, but Renfield wasn’t about to question Master’s selection.

He waited until the door closed and the woman had gone around the car to the door leading into the house. As she tapped in the code to disarm the alarms, he crept behind her, his eyes glowing amber and the string wound between his hands. As the door swung open, he lashed the string around her neck and yanked it taunt.

The woman screamed as best she was able and flailed madly. With panicked purpose in mind, she brought up her keys and mashed the button on a tube of pepper spray.

Renfield had been ready for any retaliation and was already burying his head into her back before the cloud hit them both. The woman was not at all prepared for the smarting air to reach her face as Renfield dragged her backwards and bore her to the ground. Her screams were over in an instant, her lungs filled with burning pain even as they strained to draw a final breath.

Renfield kept his eyes shut and tried not to breathe, focusing on controlling his strength enough not to slice her head clean off. Master’s desire had sealed her fate. All that mattered now was minimizing the damage to the body.

He heard her start to gag and used one hand to pull her shirt over her mouth to catch the bloodied foam before it could stain the garage floor.

Eventually she stopped twitching under him, and he cautiously felt his way into the house, dragging the body along behind him with constant pressure to the neck just in case she was feigning death.

He found the kitchen and scrubbed his face thoroughly. Then a quick survey of the home until he found the bathroom. There was a tub – good. That made it easier.

The kitchen had knives – regretfully the serrated type, nor could he find a grindstone. This would be messy. At least there was a gallon jug of orange juice in the fridge. He dumped it and rinsed it out, then went to the garage to fetch the bucket and clean that as well.

Renfield had drained so many bodies in so many circumstances that the actions which went on in the bathroom were automatic and done with little thought. Certainly, he’d have preferred meat hooks and plentiful rope. Or better – a still living body and sets of collection bags and tubes. But he’d worked in worse conditions.

He worked fast, filling the bucket easily. Rummaging through the kitchen eventually yielded a funnel, and though the bucket was unwieldy, he filled the gallon jug and several liter bottles of Gatorade before he’d run out of vessels and the blood was growing limited.

Hopefully that was enough to prove his dedication.

Blood in the fridge, then back to the bathroom to clean up after himself. No sense leaving a mess, even if he would have to leave the body behind to horrify the authorities. Maybe he could make it look like a suicide? Probably not with rope burns and also slit veins.

There was the car. He could drive the body somewhere…

Best to stay here. By the looks of the sky, he had an hour or two before Master came. He could decide then. It didn’t look as if anyone would be looking for the corpse until tomorrow at least.

Hungry and exhausted, Renfield returned to the kitchen as relief settled over him in a wave. He’d done it! He’d made the required kill without being caught. He had the blood. Master would be pleased.

Munching on a bag of chips, Renfield took himself on a tour of the house.

Nothing terribly interesting. Exercise equipment facing the TV which appeared to be in use despite the typical nature of exercise equipment as places to hang dirty clothes. Watercolor drawings on the wall which looked as if the woman had done them herself. The second bedroom was an art studio for just such a purpose. There was a half-finished still life on the canvas that he studied curiously for a time before moving on.

The bedroom held a handful of photos in a group frame. An older couple – probably the parents. Others of people of similar age clustered together holding up paintings of amateur skill – friends. And one…

His heart stuttered with horror.

A motley group crammed around a cake on which ‘Happy Birthday Mark’ was written in green icing.

It wasn’t the bugs that gave Renfield the speed of flight as he ran for the bathroom.

He grabbed the woman by the hair and pulled up her head, searching for any sign of recognition.

It had been twenty years, and he’d seen so many thousand faces in his long lifetime that they all blended together eventually. But this face screamed in his memories as he stared.

Her hair had been darker then – dyed nearly black instead of the lighter shade she was using now. She’d been thinner, a state the equipment said she was still trying to maintain. She’d been… she’d been…

Carol. That had been her name. The one with the boring stories even among a group whose purpose had been to share the saddest moments of life.

He’d known her for two years. They’d related tragic histories together. They’d drunk together. They’d gone to an art opening once. Holiday parties with the group – the people in that circle who’d become surrogate family for a group largely separated from familial and romantic ties.

He’d watched her die.

He’d watched her come back.

And now he’d watched her die again.

At his hands.

As memories crashed around him, screaming with happiness that shouldn’t have been possible away from the master’s side, one thought burrowed itself through the rest.

How had Dracula known?

How had he been able to find this one particular human of all the humans Renfield had connected with? This one who had left New Orleans behind. This one whom Dracula surely hadn’t looked twice at as he’d savaged her throat.

He wouldn’t have remembered the victims of that night – the twenty-two people his familiar had called friends whom he’d slaughtered to prove a point. Renfield knew his master’s mind well enough to be certain of that. They wouldn’t have been people. Individuals. Just bodies.

Bodies Renfield had turned back into people with his master’s blood.

Oh no.

Carol’s home computer was password locked, of course. But she proved to be the kind of person who kept all her passwords written down and helpfully stored nearby.

Within minutes, Renfield was frantically scrolling through her social media.

What were their names? The decades had blurred the memories, but they had to still be here, didn’t they? On her friend’s lists?

There was a Bob. Yes! And clicking on the name…

…a memorial page.

There’d been a Sharon… also a page filled with tributes to her memory.

Caitlyn… still living. But she hadn’t been there that night. She hadn’t drunk Master’s blood.

But the others who had…

Renfield’s fingers flew over the keys, searching for obituaries as the names came back to him. Twenty years had ended a few in other ways. A car crash. An overdose. But in the past ten years, the former group’s numbers had been tragically depleted.

Some were declared missing. Some had been found in the wreckage of cars or fires – always a favorite way to disguise the true cause of death. Some had certainly been murdered – former partners or current ones generally blamed.

Missing blood. So frequently missing blood.

With trembling hands, Renfield typed one last name.

Katherine Quincy

No. No, no, no, no…

He huddled against the wall, sobbing into his arms.

Twenty-three. Twenty-three people had drunk the blood that night. And nineteen of them were gone.

Possibly more. He hadn’t been able to find anything on some of the others.

Mark still lived. Miraculously. Impossibly.

Mark who he hadn’t spoken to in years but who’d been the one to show him the way out of the darkness.

No! No, it wasn’t darkness! It was Master’s service. It was where he wanted to be!

It was! It was! It…

His memories erupted and tumbled over each other.

Master’s recent kindness. And so much past kindness. Master giving him precisely what he’d craved – purpose, belonging. A never wavering place at his side.

The memories of their wonderful life together sang in the forefront of his mind.

But… but there was ugliness there too.

No! He’d deserved it! Master was right and good in all his reprimands. Master was right to correct his faults. Master was everything – the exalted deity who held Renfield’s soul in his talons and could crush his body beneath his heel if he wished because that was right and just and Renfield was happy to serve and slave and think of nothing but the wishes of…

…His friends were dead.

The thought wouldn’t go away, no matter how he tried to push it aside.

His friends were dead twice over. He’d gotten them killed once, repaired his mistake, and gotten them killed a second time.

His friends who’d no longer meant anything to him. He’d moved so far past his life in New Orleans that he rarely gave it a thought. He tried not to, honestly. The place he’d committed such unforgivable betrayal. There’d been no reason to kill these particular humans to separate Renfield from them. He’d done that himself already.

No… Dracula had targeted them for a different reason. He’d sniffed them out as certainly as he’d always been able to find Renfield.

This hadn’t been revenge or a lesson (well, today definitely had been). This had been… cleaning up loose ends. Fixing Renfield’s mistakes. Getting rid of… of whatever danger those revived corpses had presented.

Why?

There was only one place he could think to look for answers. One place where his master wouldn’t immediately invade his mind.

And he had so little time before nightfall and the vampire’s coming.

He ran for the kitchen, seized the toaster, and ran to the bathroom.

“I’m sorry,” he panted as he hauled Carol out of the bathtub and propped her against the wall. “I didn’t mean any of this. I never wanted you to be hurt. I just… I don’t know what I wanted.”

He stripped the wires free of protective insulation as the bathtub filled up. Satisfied, he climbed in without bothering to undress, plugged in the toaster, and held it over the water.

He took a steadying and desperate breath.

He’d stopped fearing death a long time ago. He’d been dead too many times for it to hold much novelty. The pain of dying, and the pain of coming back, were horrible and to be avoided at all cost. But actual death… he knew the fate which awaited him.

And that was where he needed to go right now.

He let the toaster fall and squeezed his eyes shut as the electrical volts shot straight to his heart.

Notes:

Trigger Warnings: Description of murder, Description of suicide. I can add a chapter summary upon request.

---

I don't know if the bathtub and toaster thing actually works, but I saw it in Groundhogs Day at an impressionable age, so there it is.

---

Hi, I'm back. Even if I'm tragically late getting this up today. And I did not get NEARLY as much done as I hoped I would during the past week. Hopefully the next week will be more productive. Chapter 18 is good to go, so I'll see you Thursday as usual.

Chapter 18: Punish Me, Torture Me, but Let Me Live!

Before…

The day was one of unending agony.

There wasn’t a part of Renfield which wasn’t screaming with pain. Every breath, every twitch, brought fresh waves of misery.

The autumn chill cut through his thin hospital clothes, racking him with shivers that combated against the rising fever which left his skin beaded in sweat.

The rats found him after a few hours. They darted back and forth warily at first, but when they found him too helpless to move, they latched onto him in earnest. There was nothing he could do as they found every cut in his skin and gnawed the lacerations into wider and gushing wounds which cascaded his life’s essence across the floor while Renfield heaved stifled sobs against the gag and prayed for death or salvation.

Whichever came first.

Nightfall brought a moment of hope as mist hissed from the coffin and formed into the figure of a man. But Dracula stepped over Renfield without a glance, leaving him to gasp with despair and wallow alone in the freezing darkness.

Wholly alone.

It took a long time for him to notice that the rats had fled at his master’s appearance and never returned.

Renfield clung to this tiny mercy as the long hours passed away.

His mind grew foggy and slow, his eyes riveted upon the pools of blood carpeting the ground. Had he lost too much? How much more did he have?

The blackness threatened him repeatedly, yet he forced it away.

Days without sleep and enduring unspeakable agony left visions swimming before his eyes. The past seemed closer than this moment, reaching up to beckon him back… back…

---

---

Renfield stepped toward the dining table, a crystal goblet held carefully in both hands.

It was probably worth thousands more than he’d ever earned. And older than he could imagine. Or maybe not terribly old. How old was glass working? Had it been around longer than factories?

Not that the goblet was important, no. The blood inside, that’s what mattered to Dracula.

A good vintage, he’d said with a laugh, although Renfield still had no idea what constituted a delicious human. Just that he was grateful to not be involved in the hunting and gathering portion of his master’s nighttime activities. Even if he was being trained in the… harvesting now.

Master needs to eat, he reminded himself as a shudder passed through him. And how lucky the peasants were to give their lives to feed a god. What was it like for their last sight to be those fangs… that unknowable gaze… the feeling of everything being right with the world as the euphoria of the fangs slid into your…

CRASH!

He didn’t know how it happened. Just a chair leg, and his foot, and the two tangled with one another. And then he was fumbling as the goblet hung in the air for an instant before time rushed forward, splattering blood and crystal shards across the stone floor.

The vampire must have been equally surprised by his familiar’s clumsiness since he only reacted once it was too late to save his dinner. But he made up for lost time as he bridged the distance in a blur, his open hand colliding with Renfield’s startled face in a slap that spun the man off his feet.

He’d have fallen backwards if the vampire hadn’t seized him by the neck and shoved him to his hands and knees – directly into the shattered goblet.

Renfield shrieked as his forehead was mashed into the ground and pinned there, one shard slicing dangerously near his eye.

“Don’t. Move,” Dracula hissed.

Renfield choked down a whimper and froze, glass digging into his arms and legs, the sharp edges slicing up through his clothing to impale into his skin.

He listened to the staccato strides of Master quitting the room and forced himself not to wriggle for a spot of miniscule relief.

Eventually he heard the vampire returning, bringing relief with his presence that at least Renfield was not to be left abandoned to his pain.

There was the sound of something large being dragged across the floor and halted near his head. Then came the sound of Dracula seating himself, taking the time to settle comfortably before placing his feet, heavy and deliberate, on Renfield’s back.

Renfield startled at the weight, then forced himself to remain frozen. A whimper of misery half escaped his lips, but he forced it down to strangled silence.

“Cry if you wish,” Dracula said evenly. “But if it turns to begging, I fill your mouth with glass.”

Renfield let out a small whimper in response, then closed his eyes and focused on enduring.

It felt like hours.

The glass digging deeper and deeper into his skin. The weight of the master’s feet grinding him closer to the floor. His joints screaming in their locked position. Screams hammering against his throat as he forced them to escape as merely broken weeping.

Daring to give small voice to his suffering was all the relief he allowed himself.

Occasionally he heard the master sipping languidly over the pounding of blood in his ears. Dracula enjoying his dinner. Dracula perhaps fortunately not dining on the dripping blood of his familiar.

Maybe he didn’t want to get cut.

At last, at very long last, the weight lifted.

“Stand,” Dracula said in a cold voice.

Easier said than done.

Renfield’s first attempt toppled him right back into the shards, cutting his hands to ribbons. With heavy use of the table and ignoring the fragments now embedded in his palms, he managed to gain his wobbling legs and lifted his eyes apologetically to the master.

Dracula didn’t give him time to find his balance. He seized Renfield by the jacket and flipped him onto the table.

Renfield landed on his back with a whoomph of air, his head cracking back against the heavy dining table.

Dracula pinned him down with a hand on his sternum. “Stay still,” he ordered, and went to work with his long claws digging the glass out of his servant’s skin.

And that… that was even worse than kneeling in the shards.

Renfield clenched his teeth, tears flowing freely to mingle with the blood as Dracula started with his face and worked down from there. The vampire shredded his clothes as he went, tossing sleeves and trouser legs across the room with dismissive annoyance and leaving Renfield shivering in the cold air, aware of this new stimulus somewhere amidst the pain, fear, and oncoming shock.

Dracula surveyed him with cold eyes, no stray emotion flitting into Renfield’s mind to indicate his master’s opinion of his clumsy and terrified familiar.

The vampire picked up a long shard, taking his time licking it clean. Then he sliced it across his own wrist.

Renfield cringed as the dark blood dripped over him, having only experienced such a baptism at his creation as a familiar. Was this the reverse? Master had given him this life. Has Renfield’s stumbling proved him unworthy to serve?

The blood dripped across Renfield’s lacerated limbs. The vampire twisted his wrist, allowing the blood to pool in his hand. He smeared his palm over Renfield’s face, lingering long on the deep gouge beside his eye.

Every injury blazed with renewed and blinding pain, followed by a sensation of… movement.

Of the skin stretching and extending ribbons of renewed growth. Veins snapping back together and knitting themselves with precision no surgeon could ever hope to mimic. A relentless itching of fresh skin forming into a whole.

Renfield might have fallen to clawing at himself, the itching almost more painful than the injuries, but Dracula’s hand on his chest and cold eyes locked into Renfield’s froze him to terrified stillness.

As the burning subsided, the vampire stepped back. “Stand,” he ordered once more.

Renfield’s legs were just as shaky the second time, even if he managed to drop from the table without falling. He stared down at himself, mesmerized by the sight of unblemished skin and painless limbs.

He was healed. Master had…

The thing was, it had never occurred to Renfield that Dracula wouldn’t beat him. The rod had never been spared by anyone in power over him. His father and grandfather had beaten him for any faltering, any foolish word, any time they caught him looking too long at that pretty servant boy next door. His mother was generous with the switch when chores were forgotten or left poorly done. His schoolmasters were quick with the ruler at any sign of distraction or defiance. His employers had seen nothing wrong with training their apprentices with slaps and strikes that Renfield had never shown competency enough to advance beyond. Even his wife was swift to scratch and threaten when she saw how her meek husband responded to a show of force.

From the moment he’d first knelt and placed himself in the count’s service, Renfield had accepted force as inevitable. It was the way training was done.

He’d been surprised these past months that the master hadn’t hit him yet.

That it had happened at last filled him with no surprise or sense of betrayal. That the reprimand had been extreme meant nothing. He’d broken something far more valuable than himself. The punishment fit the crime.

All he’d anticipated once it was over was perhaps a few moments to stem the bleeding before setting to work cleaning up the mess he’d made.

To have Master take the time to extract the glass. To be healed. Restored. Cared for…

Master cleared his throat expectantly. “What do you say?”

Renfield’s eyes shot up to meet the vampire’s, struck by the expression his master wore. Wary? Tense? “Incredible,” Renfield breathed the first thought that came to his mind. “Your blood can… You’re incredible, Master.”

Dracula’s head jerked, a flicker of confusion passing over his face. “…What else do you say?” he repeated as if treading on uncertain ground.

“Oh… Oh! Thank you, Master!” Renfield stretched out his hands, gazing up for permission. When he was not rejected, he tenderly took the count’s hand in both of his and brought it to his lips. He kissed the knuckles tenderly, ending with his forehead pressed to the back of the count’s palm. “You’re too kind. Thank you for healing me.”

He felt a teasing in his mind, the master touching and sifting at his thoughts. He opened his mind gladly, laying bare whatever it was the master wished to see.

“You might apologize,” Dracula said at last.

“Apologize?” Renfield looked up, blinking blankly.

Dracula nodded his head toward the floor.

Renfield followed his gaze, bewildered at the sea of shattered glass and splattered blood. Had that just happened? It felt like ages ago. Something from a different life, a different Renfield.

“Yes, of course.” Renfield dropped the hand he was certainly unworthy to hold. “I’m terribly sorry, Master. My clumsiness is inexcusable. Shall I clean it up now? Or did you wish to punish me first?”

Again, the vampire eyeing him with that strange look of bewilderment. Again, the rifling in his mind. “That… was your punishment, Servant.”

Renfield still gazed back at him with confusion. “But… punishments are meant to linger. How can I learn without the scars to remind me of my faults?”

“Renfield…” Dracula murmured slowly, his expression warring somewhere between outrage and… something else. He exhaled and turned away. “Clean up this mess. Be more careful in the future.”

And he was gone.

Renfield blinked after him, his shoulders slumped.

Something had happened. Some test he’d surely failed.

Uncertain if his end was nigh when next his master was hungry, he went to fetch the broom.

---

Dracula said nothing to him for the remainder of the night, and Renfield tiptoed on eggshells, frantic to prove himself as contrite as possible.

Left alone in the sunlight did nothing for his nerves. He cleaned manically, seeking out any task to prove his worth.

The months since his claiming had been a blissful blur. Nothing had changed. They still spent their nights in quiet conversation and games. Renfield helped Dracula with his English and Dracula encouraged him to broaden his mind amidst the library books. Dracula still went alone when the weather was mild to seek out his meals. Renfield still remained locked behind the castle gates, accepting his limited world as the master’s will.

But everything had changed in Renfield’s mind. The world had recentered itself, the master a true north more powerful than any magnetic point. His praise permitted Renfield’s heart to beat, his smile the only sun Renfield needed. His presence… that was the air in his lungs.

It had been natural that first day to kneel and declare the count his master. Renfield had known it was so, and Dracula had accepted the worship as his just due. What followed was the perfectly natural extension of that knowledge.

There were no servants and would be no servants until spring. The master should not live in filth, so of course Renfield cleaned. Of course he took up the mending and the laundry. Of course he put away whatever books or papers the master left out in the morning.

Dracula acknowledged Renfield’s work with the air that this was how the world should be, and he’d expected no less. He made his expectations clear, demonstrating how he wished his linens folded and his things laid out.

A patient master, Renfield thought with gratitude. One aware that his familiar desired to serve but had never been trained for the purpose. One willing to take the time to mold Renfield’s eagerness into something useful.

One who seemed puzzled when he corrected a fault, and Renfield cringed for the blow.

Now the blow had come, thoroughly and horribly. And beautifully.

Renfield found his mind reliving that shower of blood again and again.

Master who’d punished his fault and then tended to his wounds.

Who else in his life had ever been so kind?

Dracula awoke early that evening, the winter sun already gone, and the castle pleasantly dim.

Renfield didn’t know if he ought to hasten to the master’s side and show his contrition or keep away unless summoned, but Dracula soon called Renfield to join him in the library where their language studies occupied time enough for Renfield to dare feel himself forgiven.

Later, they sat before the fire together, the count reading aloud something in German which Renfield struggled wearily to comprehend. It wasn’t long before his head began to nod and soon, to his surprise and pleasure, the count nudged for him to lie down and place his head in his master’s lap.

Dracula’s fingers played over his scalp and slowly down his neck. “May I…?” he asked, his hand questing beneath Renfield’s shirt.

“Of course,” Renfield said, although there was no of course about it.

Surrendering his soul had surprisingly not meant the immediate loss of all boundaries. Dracula had kept his word, asking each time he explored further down Renfield’s body. Renfield never hesitated in giving his consent, forever voracious for the gentle touches society and family had barred him from.

Some days he dreamed of doing the same. Or of… of allowing the count… more.

He shuddered and forced his mind away from such impurities. Just enjoy this. Just enjoy the fingers rubbing along his spine.

“This would be easier without your coat,” Dracula said, and Renfield sat up immediately to shrug off the thick layer.

He wasn’t quite certain when his suspenders were pulled aside and his shirt likewise removed, but the chilled air and chilled hands were worth it to feel the slow mapping of his back.

“Many scars,” Dracula murmured, playing his thumb down a particularly pronounced welt. “Who was so cruel to you?”

“It was my fault,” Renfield replied, hiding his face against his master’s leg. “They all were.”

“What? All?”

“It’s the only way to teach someone as stupid as me.”

The vampire growled low in his throat. “These marks linger beyond the lesson.”

“That’s so I’ll remember and not make those mistakes again.” Renfield shivered as a finger traced down the longest and lowest of the scars.

“I do not like this,” Dracula rumbled flatly. “You are mine. You should bear my marks alone.”

Renfield felt a confusing slurry of pleasure and shame in his gut. To belong… but to be so damaged already… “I’m sorry. If I could make them disappear…”

“I will.” A claw flicked along either side of a ridge. “I cut. I heal. You are whole…” The claw tapped lightly on his forehead. “You are mine.”

---

It hurt.

It hurt, and it was glorious.

Chained face down, spread eagle and pinned like a butterfly on a collector’s board.

A knot of cloth in his mouth to prevent him from breaking his teeth.

The only mercy before the pain began.

Pain and healing.

The master cut away the scars. Cut away the past. Erased everything ever done to him.

Dripped that miraculous blood down. Made his skin as pure as new fallen snow.

And when Master next struck him, his marks were the only marring of his familiar’s features.

And Renfield wore the bruises with devoted joy that was doubled when his master deigned to absolve his sins in a shower of blood.

---

---

Renfield gasped awake, choking on something being forced down his throat.

“Drink!” he heard his master growl. “Unless you want to die again.”

Blood. Master’s blood. Blood that gave life and healing.

He nursed from the source, his mouth suctioned to Master’s wrist until the nectar was pulled away and he was cast to the ground.

He crouched where he’d been flung, his forehead pressed to the floor as he awaited condemnation or mercy.

“You betrayed me,” Dracula rumbled. “You failed your task. You were imprisoned. You were mostly useless when I arrived. And then you had the audacity to attack me.”

“I’m sorry,” Renfield whispered humbly. “I’m sorry, Master.”

The silence went on so long that Renfield found himself praying for a swift and merciful death to end the tension.

“I don’t give second chances,” Dracula announced, the sound of his voice turning away from Renfield. “When my creatures prove ineffective, I discard them and find another.” Another long pause. “But as it stands, the time is ill to replace you.

“My enemies have run off to Transylvania,” he went on. “Chasing one I created to play as a decoy should they draw too close. If he’s clever, he’ll kill them. If not, they’ll believe me dead. England is mine for the time being. And you, pathetic worm, still hold the knowledge of all the land purchased in my name somewhere in that damaged little brain of yours.

“So, you may live until I have your knowledge and can find someone worthier to serve my interests. Who knows? If I’m feeling generous, perhaps I’ll let your replacement have you as a plaything. Would that please you? To grovel lower than the dirt under my heels?”

“Yes,” Renfield answered sincerely. He dared wriggle a little closer, basking in the warmth of his master’s nearness.

A familiar alone for so long. A familiar without purpose.

Master was here now. He’d saved Renfield from the asylum. He’d given his blood so that Renfield might live. He’d taken them far from the misery of captivity to this faraway place of safety.

Master had saved him! Come back for him! Could anyone be kinder?

“Oh, Renfield.”

A hand bent down and cupped his jaw, lightly tugging Renfield to his knees.

He dared raise his eyes to his master’s, surprised to find the anger gone and replaced with pity.

And perhaps… affection?

“I left you alone too long,” Master said quietly. “Look at you. So little left and still trying to be a good boy. Is that what you want to be?”

“Yes please, Master,” Renfield whispered.

And his wise and wonderful master smiled. “Rest, Servant. Perhaps I will allow you a second chance.”

Renfield curled up where he lay, wanting for nothing now that he was back at his master’s feet.

Notes:

I finally saw the 1931 movie. Poor Renfield. Did they build that whole staircase set? That was impressive. But why were there armadillos in Transylvania?

Chapter 19: Shadows

Now...

Falling.

Falling which lasted an eternity.

Then greyness and emptiness which lasted another eternity.

And then… then he was no longer alone.

The afterlife wasn’t precisely one of locations. And yet, in a way it was.

This shadow world was the vampire’s creation. Built in blood and power over his centuries of life as he channeled more and more of his strength and power into crafting his domain.

The castle as it had stood in Romania towered above the misty shadowlands – more imposing and gravity defying than it had ever been in life.

Castle Dracula as its master dreamed it.

The world beyond it was mist. Insubstantial places of fog and change. Of waiting. There were locations within its depths, but one had to know their existence to find them.

No interlopers could have survived this realm.

Not with the guardians it possessed.

It took him a moment as always to collect himself. To gather enough shadows together to make a form and shuffle his memories into identity.

Renfield. Me. Robert Montague Renfield.

He took what passed as a breath in this place and sent out a call that he existed to any and all listening in the shadows.

And they came to him.

Some clear and defined with forms they’d worn in life. Some shadows of broken memories of what had been. They swarmed him. Surrounded him. Touched the vibrancy of his recently expired soul which still hummed with the strength of life.

Dracula’s familiars. The multitude who had gone before him.

“Welcome, brother!” one cried, the shadows solidifying into shape and voice, although it wasn’t precisely speech. Just a conveyance of ideas which was easiest to comprehend as vocalization. “Welcome back to us.”

Renfield reached out his shadow-self to clasp the outstretched arm. “Ilyá,” he replied. “A pleasure.”

Two more shades formed beside Ilyá – Gilles and Awatif greeting Renfield with more subdued affection than Ilyá’s eternal enthusiasm.

These three had risen to the top of whatever rank existed among the familiars. In this world where their souls existed purely to serve Dracula without another thought or concern, they were the ones who greeted and assessed any new additions to their ranks, deciding who required punishment for crimes against the master and who would be permitted to serve whenever the vampire, whose sleeping soul came near-daily to his afterlife castle, called for their attendance.

The oldest of the souls were long faded, any memory of their identity and living lives long forgotten, only an existence of willing and grateful service to their master remaining as their sole purpose for being. If anyone wanted to learn the vampire’s origins, these souls were too long faded to give up what secrets they had once possessed. They swirled as thick as the mist, buffeted indifferently aside by the younger souls, awakening from the shadows only when summoned to serve the master’s bidding.

There were others who existed in a perpetual limbo – those who’d served in life for so short a time as to be forgotten by the master and unacknowledged by their fellows. They faded slowly, of no use to anyone but knowing in their fading souls that this was as it should be and their presence was purpose enough because they might be called for use.

There were others strong enough to scramble for supremacy among their brethren, and occasionally one who harbored dreams of still distinguishing themselves enough to be favored by the master would challenge the others. Sometimes they did succeed to rising higher, a slow clawing process to pass away the quiet of eternity. This was how these three had reached the rank they had.

But it was Renfield, of all impossible souls, who held the place of ultimate honor among them.

Here he was first among servants. The one most favored by the master. Who’d protected and revived the master from injury after injury. Who’d been favored with revival from death time and again by their so fickle master who rarely gave a second chance to repair mistakes which led the souls to the shadowland. Who’d served so very long that the others had begun to wonder if there would ever be any others added to their ranks.

Renfield closed himself off briefly, separating his own mind away from the pull and simplicity of this place. From the desire to forget all else save service forever, amen.

He needed to remember himself. Here where Master would not pry into his thoughts – if he even could when Renfield’s physical brain had no thoughts to read.

He needed answers.

“Have you come to stay this time?” Ilyá asked gleefully. His eagerness darkened. “Did you die in battle? Is the master in danger?” He solidified further and spread himself out as if prepared to spring at enemies he couldn’t reach.

“Master’s fine,” Renfield replied, keeping carefully to the truth. Lies would be sensed here. “I was hunting.”

“Ah. Yes. Then Master will summon you back, surely.” Ilyá brightened once more. “You are well-favored in this way.”

There was no bitterness in Ilyá over this. Some of the others openly resented Renfield, but his favor from Dracula, and the backing of these three, kept him safe.

Until they learned what he’d done at least.

“Have any others come here? Since I last came?”

“There have been a few,” Gilles spoke up with a rumble of disgust. “A mewling coward who called himself a wolf. And another four with him, but they’ve been no trouble. And some others after who’d served too briefly to be of note.” He waved a hand into the mist. “They’re among the shadows now. Not long enough in the master’s power to be counted as much.”

“And the coward?”

Gilles snorted. “We put him among the traitors. He spoke ill of you, and we knew his accusations to be falsehoods, so we dealt with him as we do all those who speak against the master.”

Renfield winced. There was no mercy in this place. The familiars, boiled down to their most fanatical, had no tolerance for those who had fallen out of favor with the master. Their treatment of traitors would last until the shades inevitably faded and then would be left to drift among the shadows, forgotten by the master, unforgiven by their brethren.

Renfield’s future the moment Dracula declared what he’d done to his most loyal followers.

For now at least he was safe with them. They would have attacked him immediately if Dracula had given them explanation for why he’d been close to death for so long. And Renfield was known to be tenderhearted, even for the traitors, so his mannerisms wouldn’t attract suspicion.

Teddy was the only one who knew the truth, and there was nothing about Teddy’s brazen and boastful behavior and the cowardly heart behind the noise which would endear him to the familiars, trained and cold killers as many of them were.

“Were there any others?” Renfield pressed. “Not brothers of ours. Something… something that might have had enough of Master’s blood for their souls to come here.”

“Oh, them,” Gilles rumbled in disgust, and Renfield’s heart sank. “You mean the unsworn. Have we never shown those to you?”

“No.”

“Come then!” Ilyá started off with a bound. “We have a new one too. A kill of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Good! Good, they are not meant to last long in the world. Unsworn and not brothers of ours.”

The four set off, the long-dead shades forming an honor guard of sorts in which they pressed as close to Renfield as they could, hungry for the vitality his recently-decease soul still possessed.

They had little concern for the living world any longer, asking only that the master was well and well-fed, though they knew this already considering that Dracula descended here nearly every time he slept. He was still there now, in fact, though Renfield could sense him rising out of the shadowlands and back into waking.

Little time before he awoke properly and knew that his servant was dead.

If Dracula revived him, Renfield had little time now to learn what he wanted to know.

Fortunately, his companions were largely incurious about him, so Renfield traveled with them as fast as thought through the mist without giving himself away.

They were not good people – few could be called such who’d swear themselves to the care and service of a vampire. Ilyá had regularly raped his master’s victims and saw nothing wrong with the habit. Gilles, a priest swayed in his doubts to the service of another, had never lost his religious fanaticism – it had simply changed targets of the fervor with which he punished those who didn’t fall down and worship his god. Awatif had drowned her first victim in a well before she was a woman and had become Dracula’s creature to save herself from a beheading and to continue her slaughter of innocents now with the blood going to a useful purpose.

Renfield would have been terrified of the lot of them if he’d met them in life. They scared him even now, and he feared they’d one day learn he was not so horrifying a monster as they.

And then it would occur to him that he WAS as bad as any of them, and had probably accounted for more corpses than all three combined considering the length of his service, and he shouldn’t think of himself as anything more than a monster among monsters.

Here, where his mind should have been reduced to pure service, he’d always found more clarity of thought than in the living world. Here, his justifications were stripped away, his crimes clear and bare before him.

He was a murderer, and maybe Dracula deserved to live just as much as any human. Maybe some of the people he’d killed left the world better with their absence. Maybe he’d minimized the damage and grief and reduced the chances of a feeding frenzy as often as he could.

But that didn’t change the simple truth. He’d killed. He’d killed to protect his master and killed to protect himself and killed because the vampire needed to eat and sometimes killed because someone was in his way.

And as long as he lived, he’d keep doing it.

And he was filled with the guilt of that. And also unapologetic of what he’d done.

Even in clarity, his mind was a whirl of uncertainty of what had brought him to this point.

“Here they are.” Gilles halted at the edge of a pit.

Renfield peered down… and down… into nothingness.

Awatif waved a hand through the mist, causing the world to sharpen in this portion of the shadowlands. “Look now.”

Renfield looked again… and there they were.

The faces he knew, and more besides. The support group and the FBI agent who’d gotten too close lay in the depths. But there were other faces.

The Harkers were there – Mina and Jonathan both. Mina had been made to drink the vampire’s blood, but the process of transformation had never been completed. That her husband stood beside her confirmed, as Renfield had always suspected in his darkest of hearts, that much more had gone on in Transylvania than Jonathan had documented in his journals.

And there were other faces. Faces from before his time. Faces of those who could have been servants, or victims, but had somehow been neither.

“Who are they?” he asked.

“Those with the master’s blood in their veins,” Awatif replied. “But that weren’t made into creatures like him or like us. Human.” She spat the word with contempt. “You can see their connection to the master if you look hard enough.”

Renfield peered closer, and yes, there were threads upon the captives which led toward the castle. Not like the chains the familiars wore – solid and unyielding connections between their souls and their god. These would never be called to service. But they would never be permitted rest in whatever afterlife existed for humans who worshipped other gods or no gods. They would simply… be.

“So even though they’re not sworn to him… they still belong to him?” he asked slowly, struggling to grasp the horror of what he’d done.

“They tasted his blood. They are part of him,” Ilyá said simply. “Not so useful as those who gave our souls willingly, but they serve to strengthen the master. They do not belong anywhere, truly. So we keep them here.”

“We’ve had quite a lot of them lately,” Gilles observed. “We asked Master after the first few. He said he was cleaning up a mistake.”

Renfield flinched.

The other three, all hunters of men in life, saw the movement and gave him glares of disapproval.

“Have you cause trouble for the master?” Gilles asked.

There wasn’t any point of denying it. “I’m afraid so.”

“He’ll forgive you,” Ilyá declared, confident and brazen as always. “He always does.”

“Has he spoken of me at all?”

“No.” Awatif considered. “When we told him we’d confined the one who insulted you, he said we’d done right. That’s been all.”

Good. His secrets were safe for the moment. Dracula hadn’t turned his followers against him the first time Renfield had betrayed him. Apparently, he hadn’t done it this time either.

Yet.

He moved closer to the edge, then dropped over the side, landing effortlessly among the shades.

He could probably escape at any time – his soul hadn’t been tethered to this spot.

And if Master didn’t call him back to life, one place was as good as any other to await torture.

If there was knowledge to be found, it would be here. Among those who’d not had their identities carved out and replaced with Dracula’s will like the masses of familiars.

And there was one among these shades whom he knew had once seen into Dracula’s mind.

“Mrs. Harker,” he said quietly, stepping toward the inert shape. “Mina? Can you see me?”

The shade remained staring blankly at nothing.

Renfield put a hand on the woman who’d been kind to him long ago. The woman he’d fought once to protect and then had helped to kill. There was no response as he slipped his hand into her mind. “I’m sorry for what I’ve caused,” he whispered. “I’m sorry to do this to you. But you saw into his mind once long ago. He told me so. Show me. Please.”

And the memories long past swarmed into his mind to awaken his own.

Notes:

I might change my posting days. I am not getting much time for editing on weekends. We'll see after Thursday. That'll happen as usual. And it's a long chapter to make up for this one before short.

Chapter 20: And You, Their Best Beloved, are Now Blood of My Blood

Before…

Renfield prowled through the mansion, nodding quietly to the servants as he scrutinized their work to ensure all was as it should be.

The servants weren’t entirely certain what rank he held in the master’s house, but they’d learned it was safest to take their orders from him and come to him with their problems than dare disturb the master.

Servants who took their grievances to the master’s private chambers were dismissed forthwith – often without time to pack before they disappeared, leaving no forwarding address with their fellows and only Renfield to pack their things and carry away their trunk to whatever situation they’d next found.

It had taken two years for Renfield to tentatively call himself recovered from his time in the asylum. Master had healed his body of physical wounds, but deprivation and neglect weren’t cured in blood. Parasites had plagued him for a long time before his body was finally purged of infections and hangers-on, and he could even begin to find a path towards healing.

Mentally… that took much longer.

Master was careful with him overall. Night after night they sat alone – Renfield kneeling at the master’s feet with his head in the vampire’s lap. Long fingers carding through his hair as they watched his memories together. As Master helped him piece the past together, highlighting the care and kindness he’d received at the count’s hand and pushing away the cruelty of the asylum until it seemed the separation had never occurred.

Still, the scars ran deep.

It was long before Renfield could hear raised voices without shaking. Long before a sharp word from the master wouldn’t drive him to his knees, pleading to be spared the cruelty of strait-waistcoat and isolation. Long before the word ‘doctor’ didn’t cause him to stiffen and jerk his head about wildly.

Master knew what Seward had done, and more, what he’d tried to do. Master had promised revenge.

Renfield couldn’t entirely say he wanted revenge. Not if it meant he’d have to go anywhere near the asylum again.

The years had passed, first in a small home in northern England, then a few years in Ireland before a brazen return to purchase a fine home far closer to London.

Renfield had been sent ahead to do so, the first time he’d been away from his master’s side for any length since his rescue. He’d been terrified… and had spoken no word against Dracula’s commands.

This was the test. He’d been surviving on borrowed time all these years while Master was otherwise engaged with his own pleasures and hungers, his servant’s failings forgotten so long as Renfield drew no attention to them. Renfield had served night after night in fearful and unswerving devotion, never daring to give the count a second to doubt him or show annoyance for his existence.

So he’d gone ahead. Been a lawyer again. Purchased the house. Outfitted it with servants. Had everything prepared and set to perfection when Dracula stepped from the carriage to survey his new domain.

“My dear Renfield,” Master had purred once he’d gotten Renfield alone in his room. “You’ve done well.” And he’d undressed his familiar with unhurried hands, leading him to bed for the first time since they’d left Transylvania, murmured the pet names Renfield had longed to hear. “My good familiar. My good boy.”

And Renfield had found forgiveness at last.

London was large and broiling with humanity. The hunting was easy and plentiful. Master ate well, disguising his victims as carriage accidents and gas leaks and disease. They could visit the same workhouses night after night with none the wiser, though Dracula would always prefer the more tempting target – the ones that threatened their tranquility.

But now his mind was on vengeance for those who’d stolen from him. Who’d polluted his first London home and taken the one he’d claimed as bride and thought to bar him from the second woman he’d set his fangs into.

He’d given them years to grow complacent, to live so long in the sea of certainty that the monster was dead. Now was time to strike.

Renfield’s steps led him down to the kitchens, finding the butler and checking on the wine selection. Yes, all was in readiness. The cook knew her work just as well. The hall was laid, the silver polished.

Nothing more to do besides wait.

They’d been abroad several months before. To the Netherlands and a doctor who’d thought himself clever. Who’d bathed his doorways in holy water and affixed crucifixes and garlic and wolfsbane over the windows.

Who’d thought himself prepared for any monster.

But he’d had no preparations against a familiar breaking down the door and dragging him outside where a vampire might feed without need of welcome once the rosary had been torn from his neck.

They’d done well. Managed to make it look like a burglary gone wrong instead of outright murder. It helped that the authorities were so quick to lay the body of Dr. Van Helsing in the ground without time to notice such things as loss of blood.

One down.

Four to go.

Renfield.

At the call, Renfield broke off his pacing and hurried upstairs, passing through the locked doors of his master’s chamber of which he held the only key.

He pushed back the coffin lid and gave his arm to assist his master’s rising.

Dracula sunk in his claws hard enough to draw blood, a silent reprimand for not being precisely where Master wanted him when he wanted him.

Renfield bore it without a murmur.

“Is everything prepared?”

“Yes, Master. I’ve checked with all the servants. Everything is as you desire.”

“And the guests?”

“The carriage will collect the Harkers soon.” Renfield carefully undressed the count as he spoke.

Generally the count slept in whatever he’d worn the day before, an odd habit which seemed to arise from years of danger and frequent attacks. Now Renfield helped him from one set of clothes into more formal wear.

Black. So the blood wouldn’t show.

“And the doctor?”

“He’s confirmed his visit. The carriage driver knows to go and fetch him once he’s dropped off the Harkers.”

“Good. You will make yourself scarce when the Harkers arrive. You may play with the doctor however you please.”

Renfield quailed. “Master…”

“You will kill him, Servant. Whether you make his death quick or drawn out and humiliating is your choice. But he will be dead at your hands before the night is out.”

“Don’t you want to drink from him?”

“A torturer and a rapist? Not particularly. That’s foul blood, undoubtedly. No.” Dracula turned from being helped into his jacket to pat Renfield’s cheek. “He’s here for you to play with, Pet. Enjoy yourself. You’ve worked very hard to arrange this.”

Renfield stared at his feet, trying not to shake. “I do strive to satisfy you in every way, Master.”

“And tonight you have your reward.”

“I don’t deserve it, Master.”

“No, you don’t. But I choose to give it to you nevertheless.”

“Thank you, Master,” Renfield mumbled, trying to dredge up the gratitude through his terror.

Dracula didn’t notice as he grumbled over one button looking less shiny than the others until Renfield fetched the polish.

---

The carriage arrived at seven, a man and woman descending with laughter in their steps as they looked up at the big house.

Age had done its work upon them. Jonathan’s hair – once greying from his ordeal – was full white now. Mina was plumper – her figure not quite recovered from childbirth.

Renfield watched them from the shadows, unease churning in his gut.

The woman who should have been the master’s bride. The man who might have been his familiar.

Here they were again. Back in their lives.

And even if tonight was meant to bring their end, their presence near the count sent Renfield’s mind whirling with turbulence.

He’d never wanted to see them again. He’d wanted to run from here and leave them behind. They’d won! Let them win. The world was huge. The master could vanish anywhere. No need to come back here. No need to deliberately tempt their recollections and then bring them directly to the vampire’s home.

No need to force Renfield to confront his assaulter.

Had Seward learned anything from what he’d done to Renfield? Probably not. He’d probably continued to poke his patients into madness to see how they’d respond. Driven them further against their delusions for scientific ‘study’ without seeking a cure. Perhaps Renfield hadn’t been the only one that the doctor had forced to his knees.

But that last night… after Master had left him to die… Van Helsing had operated to remove the blood clotting in his brain. Seward had treated him with brandy and a cooling cloth. They’d eased his last moments of life with the kindness surgeons ought to demonstrate. Even if they’d abandoned him to race to Mrs. Harker’s defense, leaving him to first be killed and then abducted by the returning vampire.

Still, they’d been kind to him once. When it had suited them.

And Renfield had so little kindness to remember.

“Welcome,” he heard the footman say as he opened the door to the Harkers. “Lord Ruthven is sorry he can’t be here to greet you himself. He was called away suddenly, but he asks that you begin dinner without him. He’ll be here to discuss business before you’re through.”

“We can wait,” Mrs. Harker said laughing. “It was so kind of him to invite the both of us. We wouldn’t want to be impolite.”

Renfield listened to the footman assuring them that these were the master’s wishes as the door swung shut. He quietly locked them from outside, sliding a board between the handles to prevent their opening.

The footman was enthralled for the evening, but he probably wouldn’t survive. Renfield had sent as many of the servants away as possible.

No one should be witness to the carnage about to occur this night.

He resumed waiting.

A half hour later, the carriage pulled up again and a too-familiar figure stepped out. He carried a medical bag – here to examine an invalid, he’d been told. He moved swiftly to the door, faltering when he saw that they’d been barred from the outside. He reached to remove the board, juggling his bag and cane awkwardly under one arm as he did.

Renfield stepped behind him, wrapped an arm around Seward’s face, and pressed a cloth to his mouth.

Seward struggled, but his cane wasn’t in position to be of any use, and Renfield had strength and surprise on his side. Soon he was helping the woozy doctor around to the servant’s door, assuring the fainting man that help could be found there, only to bypass the door and drag him into the garden.

There was a shed along the garden wall which Renfield had cleaned out for precisely this purpose. He flung Seward into a chair and had him disarmed of bag and cane and coiled in ropes before the doctor could regain full use of his senses.

“Help! Murderers! Help!” the doctor began to shout the moment he could.

“That never did much for me no matter how often I cried,” Renfield growled from the shadows. “But maybe this neighborhood is kinder than yours.”

Seward broke off yelling to stare blindly toward him. “Who are you? What is the meaning of this?”

“Did you ever find another zoöphagous patient?”

He saw the moment things clicked in the doctor’s mind. “No,” Seward gasped, his head rearing back. “You… I saw your body.”

Renfield prowled closer, wary to get too near the man who’d held his life in his talons for so long. “The master still had use for me.”

Seward paled further. “He’s dead. I saw…” Horror struck him. “What did I see?”

“What he wanted you to see.” Renfield halted, trying to feel tall, trying to feel in power. “You thought you could destroy him?”

“We had to! A monster like that-”

“Like that? What about the monsters you harbor in your asylum?”

“They’re… they’re locked away. For public good.”

“Locked away? The men with their batons and their love of beating the helpless? Is that how you tame those monsters? Give them invalids to hurt so they leave the public alone?”

“No one ever beat the patients unless absolutely necessary.”

“No?” Renfield paced the tight and angry circles of a caged tiger. “How often was I beaten for having fits? How often were you the one to bait me into them and then stand by laughing while they dragged me away in manacles? How often did I beg you to take off the restraints? Did you ever listen to my pleas? Any of the patients?”

Doctor Seward swallowed hard and tried to mask his quivering tone. “Now, Renfield,” he said soothingly. “I’m sure it seemed cruel from the outside, but you must understand the scientific process. You’re a researcher yourself, aren’t you? All your notes and examinations of those insects. You understand what must be done to understand a problem before…”

“Before?” Renfield loomed over his tormentor, quivering with fury. “When did you plan to get past the examination stage? Did you ever try to cure me? Understand me? I kept telling you the truth, and you wouldn’t listen. You were so convinced I was mad.”

“You were mad,” the doctor murmured.

“I wasn’t!” Renfield slammed the chair against the wall, his fists braced on either side of Seward’s head, his spittle flying into the doctor’s face. “I was never mad! I wasn’t! All you did was make everything worse!”

The doctor stared up at him, shaking and shrinking back.

“I wasn’t mad!” Renfield snarled, giving the chair a shake. “I was injured. Lost. I needed help. And you never tried. You hurt me all the more to see what I would do. I tried to warn you! Even after everything you’d done, I still tried to protect you. And you wouldn’t listen! Were you afraid what another doctor would do if I spoke to them? Worried one of them would believe me if I called you a rapist?”

“I’d never!”

“No?” Renfield sank to his knees, his teeth bared as he leaned towards Seward’s crotch. “Would you like my mouth now, Doctor? Now when you’re not sure you’re in control? Now when you’ve no whistle to summon your minions?”

Seward kicked him in the stomach and fell over backwards for his trouble, slamming his head against the floor before he could do anything to wriggle from his bonds.

Renfield shook off the discomfort and rose. Seward hadn’t been in position to put much strength behind the blow. “Master left you to me. He’s attending to the Harkers himself. And what’s his name? Your rival? Arthur? I think Master will let him go. He hasn’t caused him any personal annoyance. How do you feel about that? You weren’t worthy of Lucy, and you aren’t worthy of the master. And Arthur gets everything you didn’t. The girl then. Now his life.”

Seward was breathing hard, but his voice was coaxing. “Renfield… you don’t want to do this. You tried to save us. You’re right. I should have listened to you.”

Renfield paused, his head cocked to the side in attentive silence.

“None of us understood what we were facing. But you did. And you cared about Mina, didn’t you? You said you didn’t want her turned. You fought for her.”

Renfield chewed at his lip, still silent and watching.

Seward pressed onward, desperately filling the silence with reasonable words. “You sacrificed yourself for her sake then. And Dracula was the one who hurt you. Don’t you remember? He killed you. Why would you side with a monster now? Isn’t there any humanity-”

“I’ve met humanity,” Renfield snapped before he could finish. “And I’ve been shown more kindness from the one you call a monster than anyone else. He’s always taken care of me. He hasn’t always been kind, but he’d always been clear with the rules and expectations. Not like you and your minions with their false kindness that led to beatings. Could you honestly say that if I let you go now that you’d trust me? Recommend I walk the streets as a free and safe man?”

Seward winced. “Renfield…”

“Master forgave me. After what I’d done, he healed me. He fixed my mind. He brought me back to his service. While humanity saw me locked away and forgotten in the claws of people like you who tortured me for the fun of it. So, yes, Doctor. I choose the monster over the mercies of humanity. I’ve never found any there.”

“So what will you do? Kill me? Prove you’re as monstrous as he is?”

Renfield hesitated, staring down at the helpless man.

“You’re no killer. You wouldn’t…”

“But I am, Doctor. I’ve brought him more lambs than you can imagine. What’s one more? This one just for me.”

“You’re mad! You really are mad!”

Renfield’s vision reddened. His lips curled back. “Don’t call me that!”

“You’re mad!” Seward screamed, hysterics giving way to sense. “Help! Madman! Lunatic! Help! Save me! He-”

And Renfield struck.

---

“Renfield?”

“Master.”

“Are you finished here?”

Renfield blinked back to reality, surprised to find his hands feeling locked and cramped.

He stared at the purple-faced man beneath him, the neck utterly crushed by his vicelike grip.

“How do you feel?” the master asked into the stillness.

Renfield swallowed thickly. “He called me mad.” He looked pleadingly up at his master, desperate for confirmation. “I’m not! I wasn’t then!”

“No, Servant. You weren’t mad. You were adrift. You’re better now.”

“He said I was still mad,” Renfield whimpered miserably.

Dracula held out an arm. “Come.”

Renfield scrambled gladly into his embrace, aware of the scent of blood as he leaned into the master’s shoulder. “Are you finished inside, Master?”

“Yes. I’ve dealt with them.” He waited a moment. “Does that bother you still?”

Renfield shook his head, trying not to smear his running his nose against the count’s jacket. “It won’t, Master. I won’t think on it.”

“Good, boy.” Dracula turned away and strode from the shed. “Have the bodies cleaned up. You’ll need to hire a new footman and maid tomorrow.”

Renfield shuddered and followed the monster who was his only source of kindness.

---

“Mrs. Harker? Please. Show me what happened inside.”

---

It was all so lovely. Everything had been lovely these glorious years.

Jonathan had done so well in the world, and Mina had worked beside him until little Quincy was born. She wasn’t in love with being a mother, but she was content to the purpose for a season. Another child or two – perhaps a girl if they were fortunate. Then once they were grown enough to be off at school, she could find other work as well. The future looked bright. As it had every day since…

…Except, there were the dreams.

She didn’t tell Jonathan about them. About the man swathed in mist and shadows who danced with her sometimes in her sleep.

She’d awaken with her neck stinging with remembered pain. And then it would dissolve like mist. The dreams and pain gone together.

Forgotten.

Funny how she thought of them now. Funny how strong the dream had been the night before. How it seemed to sing distantly in the air as she followed the footman to the dining table.

“We shouldn’t eat without the host,” Jonathan protested. “We’re happy to wait.”

“Really, Sir. The master bids you sup now. He’s anxious to talk business with you afterwards. I assure you it’s his wish for you to enjoy your meal without delay.”

They protested weakly a little longer, but soon they were seated with opulent courses brought before them.

“This is incredible,” Mina laughed as the soup was served. “When did we last have a meal like this? The two of us. Without children or your business partners nagging at us?”

“Or hurrying to eat because we needed to be elsewhere,” Jonathan agreed, his eyes sparkling. “Tonight, we get to relax and enjoy everything.”

“Relax…” Mina murmured, a tremor of old unease stirring through the bliss.

Or not old. Something that felt near… And drawing closer…

“Are you alright, Mina?”

Mina shook herself and forced a smile. “Yes, of course. My mind was elsewhere.”

Jonathan looked overly anxious at the statement. “Somewhere else?” he echoed. “Is something worrying you?”

“Nothing important.” Mina started to busy herself with the soup, but Jonathan’s worried eyes prompted her to speak. “I didn’t sleep well last night. That’s all.”

“You haven’t been sleeping well at all recently,” he observed.

Mina winced. “I’d hoped you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed because… because I’ve often heard you mumbling in your sleep when I’m lying awake.”

“You’re having trouble sleeping? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to worry you. I’m sure it’s just stress. Not…”

“Stress?” Mina frowned. “Has something happened that you haven’t told me about?”

“No. Business has been fine. Better than fine.” Jonathan waved a vague hand at the house around him. “If clients of this caliber have heard of me, I’m doing something right. No, it’s…” He gave a self-effacing laugh. “Just imaginary dreads, I suppose. Old wounds bothering me.”

Mina gripped his hand across the table, her concern mounting. “Please take care of yourself, love. If you’re not feeling well.”

“Really, I’m fine. But I’m sorry if my restlessness is bothering your dreams.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s nothing to do with you. They’ve just been strange lately.”

“Frightening?”

“In a way…” How could she answer that? How could she admit to terror and intrigue and revulsion and shame all in one breath?

Once upon a time a man had come to her in her sleep and taken from her what she had not been willing to give and forced her to do as she would not consent. Everything about him had been wrong and violating and undesirable.

But she had sometimes, secretly, enjoyed the power that came after. The feeling of strength and swiftness and liberty to a body always constrained by human weakness and societal restrictions. A part of her had longed for that secret world where she could run the forests alongside those who’d called themselves her sisters. To see the wonders the moonlight revealed and feel the superiority over the huddled and terrified masses who would know her as their judge and executioner.

And she’d dreamed of him if he’d been different. If he’d offered his gifts with open hand instead of stealing in the night. If he’d come as lover instead of avenger on those who’d stolen Lucy from him. If he’d not been murderer and devil and molester.

She’d never regretted the blow which had separated her mind from his and freed her soul from his grasp.

She’d never regretted separating herself from him… and she’d never stopped wondering about what she could have been if there had been a choice.

“Mina?”

She jolted from daydreaming, blinking blankly at Jonathan’s worried face.

She couldn’t answer the questions written there.

Not when she felt such a stirring in her blood, such a cleaving toward one of unwanted touch and unspoken intentions.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, putting all her focus on the soup. “Is it time for the next course?”

It was.

A chicken dish was brought before them. A dish Mina stared at without seeing, and Jonathan didn’t look at entirely, his eyes too focused with concern upon his wife. Not until he picked up a fork and brought a piece mechanically to his mouth. Then his eyes went wide, and he recoiled from the table, coughing frantically.

“Jonathan?” Mina half rose, staring at the wide-eyed and rigid man. “What is it?”

Jonathan was on his feet now, his back against the wall. “I’ve had that before…”

Mina looked down, frowning blankly at the pale meat and the red seasoning dusting it. “What is that?”

“Paprika,” Jonathan gasped. He yanked at the collar of his shirt, his lungs working overtime.

Mina snatched up his wine glass and hurried to his side. “Drink,” she pressed. “What’s wrong? You like spicy food, don’t you?”

“It’s just… the taste,” Jonathan replied hoarsely. “It brings back… so many memories.”

Mina shuddered with icy premonition. Old horrors were prickling too hard at the back of her neck. And Jonathan’s as well. “I’ll tell the footman you’re unwell. You can meet your client another night.”

Jonathan gulped at the wine, nodding so weakly that Mina knew she was correct to insist they leave.

She turned around, relieved that they’d been alone for the outburst but surprised that no one had come running. “Excuse me?” she called. “Is there… ah!” She found a bell on the sideboard and rang it.

No one came.

Bewildered, she strode to the kitchen door and put her hands to it.

It was locked.

She threw her shoulder against it, feeling no give at the force.

“Jonathan,” she said crisply. “Put down the wine. We need to leave now.”

Jonathan gazed blankly at her but made no protests as she seized his hand and strode to the front door.

That door was also locked.

Mina yanked at the handles, wordless cries of alarm escaping her lips. Frantic, she darted into the nearest room her eyes flitting about to alight at last upon a fire poker sitting in its rack beside the chimney. She lunged for it and whirled toward the nearest window.

Jonathan seized her arm. “What are you doing? You can’t just-! Let’s see if we can find another way before you break anything!”

She gazed up at him, feeling a drumming beat in her mind of something drawing closer, closer… “It’s coming,” she gasped, barely certain of what she meant.

“I know,” her husband replied breathlessly… and drew a revolver out of his coat pocket.

“You brought a…” she whispered, clinging to his arm as he pushed her behind him.

“I felt… For a while I’ve felt…”

“Something coming?” she guessed.

“Yes.”

He didn’t ask if she thought his fears to be foolish. He hardly could considering she held the fire poker gripped as a weapon.

“The door leading to the kitchen was locked,” Mina said, forcing herself to be logical. “And the main entry.”

“If there’s a backdoor, it’s probably locked as well. You’re right that the windows are our best escape. Let’s see if there’s a bigger one in the back.”

They crept through the nearest door, finding themselves roaming dark halls with no signs of servants.

But they soon found the study with a big window opening onto the garden. Mina hurried toward it with a glad cry.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to go that way, Mrs. Harker,” said a voice behind them. “My dog ought to be prowling the grounds. And I doubt he’ll be so foolish as to deny me your blood a second time.”

They whirled as one, Jonathan firing blindly into the shadows.

In the silence following the gunshot, they heard a low chuckle. “Mr. Harker… my friend, did you truly believe that would work?”

“This might!” Jonathan thrust a hand down his shirt and came up gripping a crucifix.

The laughter from the shadows merely sounded more amused. “Belief is a powerful tool, Mr. Harker. Do you truly believe in the strength of your icons?” The steps drew closer, and Mina saw the shape of her nightmares emerge from the gloom. “After they worked so well before?”

“No,” Jonathan gasped, thrusting Mina behind him. “No… No, we saw you… You’re gone. You have to be. Mina’s been… she’s been free all this time.”

The figure of their nightmares smiled a self-satisfied look. “That was a masterful stroke of mine, wasn’t it? I gave her entry into my mind. I let the transformation begin. And then…” He snapped his fingers. “…I take it away. But not all, Mrs. Harker. Not all, would you say? Or you, my friend? Haven’t you heard me calling to you in the night?”

Mina’s heart went cold. “Jonathan?” she whispered.

“Hasn’t he told you, my dear, how he and I danced together in my castle? How we dined? Or at least…” He smiled a fiendish grin of ivory fangs. “…one of us dined. He moaned so beautifully for me, didn’t you, my friend? My Jonathan.”

“No! No, I was never yours! I never wanted to be- I tried to- I tried… I….” The gun fell from Jonathan’s shaking hands, only Mina’s arms keeping him from collapsing entirely.

The vampire smirked and drew nearer, his smile widening as Mina raised her poker. “Do you believe in that more than gun and holy icon, my dear?”

“I believe in protecting my family,” Mina hissed back as she edged toward the window, drawing Jonathan along with her.

“Ah, family. Blood of your blood. Of my blood, perhaps. We are family then, aren’t we, dear Mina?”

“No! I’m not yours anymore than he is.”

“But you are. I gave you my gift. It’s in your blood still. You can’t deny that I’m part of you.” Dracula extended his hand. “You feel it, don’t you? The desire. The pull. You’re meant to be with me.”

“No!” Mina glared back, shoving aside the pounding in her head, in her blood.

She felt it. The desire. The compulsion. The call of blood to blood.

If she’d been a different person, she might have mistaken it for her own desire.

She might have mistaken curiosity for what could have been for interest in the monster who’d forced himself upon her and given her no choice in accepting his gifts.

But she knew what true and mutual love felt like. She knew what manipulation felt like. She knew the difference between selfish desire to control and true desire for companionship.

And she could feel the voice in her head that was not her own.

Gripping Jonathan’s arm, she fled for the window.

She heard Jonathan’s scream even before his body was wrenched from her grasp.

There were shadows and blood and blurs of movement and fangs and claws and…

…hands wrapped around her. Hands holding her with affection and control.

“Mina,” the vampire breathed. “My Mina.”

“I’m not yours! I’ll never be yours!” she snarled as she struggled and flailed in his grasp.

Wall behind her. Arms around her. A heavy body that didn’t respond no matter how she kicked and bit.

And shadows. Shadows in her mind, shadows in her eyes. All that remained beyond mist and darkness were two burning red orbs.

“But you are, sweet Mina. You have my blood. You’re mine to claim.”

“I’ll die before I’ll belong to you.”

The vampire chuckled. “That won’t separate you from me. If you won’t be mine in this life, perhaps you’ll be mine in the darkness. Once you’ve had time to think about it. Perhaps your husband will dance with us as well. He’s waiting for you in the shadowlands.” He kissed her neck, slow and tender. “You can join him in that purgatory if you insist. But you’ll have far more pleasure here. In the moonlight. With me.”

He was in her mind. A thousand images of him in a thousand places.

She saw thousands of people bowing before him, offering up riches and sacrifices to a god incarnate. She saw the most powerful of rulers reduced to puppets at his touch as he commanded countries from the shadows. She saw armies fall before him without striking a blow. The most beautiful men and women casting themselves into his bed for his pleasure and feeding.

And she saw herself arrayed in splendor seated devotedly beside him.

“Is that what you want?” she demanded. “To rule everyone? Control everything?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps someday. You’re such a weakling species. Such tiny and frail lives. Who could stand against me?”

“You’re not immortal!” she spat. “We killed Lucy. And those women. Their souls are free.”

“Their souls are mine. You killed their bodies. They’ve gone to join me in the shadowlands to await my future pleasure. I let none who feel my touch leave my side. All my beloveds belong with me forever.”

“Beloved?! You forced yourself upon me! You crept upon me in the dead of night and took-”

“You wanted it. In your heart of hearts, you must know you wanted-”

“NO!” Mina shoved at him with all her futile strength. “I gave you no welcome! You never asked, and I never invited. You stole my life! And you dare to pretend I wanted-”

“You’re confused,” he murmured as he nuzzled her neck. “I’ve left you alone too long. Never fear, my darling. In the darkness, you’ll know only me. You’ll forget these foolish ramblings.”

He sank his teeth into her neck as tenderly as a lover.

Sleep, my darling, she heard him whisper in her mind. Go and join my other beloveds. And fear not. When you next awaken, you will love me eternally.

Chapter 21: Clarity

Now…

There was a rushing of nonexistence, a blur of reality. Then pain. Pain of a still convulsing and breathless body.

Renfield felt the frigid bathroom tiles beneath him, and a heavy set of claws digging into the nape of his neck. His body spasmed again and again, fighting against the act of returning to life with his lungs still choked with water and his heart still unprepared to reengage the act of beating.

Dracula held him down as he hacked and spasmed, scolding all the while in a stream of condemnation that Renfield barely heard above his wheezing lungs.

“Did you know this house was a rental?! I spent half the night tracking down the owner and killing them before I could enter. At least they were edible since the blood you harvested is worthless by now. What possessed you to do something so idiotic?! You ought to know better than to run from me that way anymore than your last feeble attempt. Are you trying to prove yourself useless? It’s working, you know. How many times do you expect me to patch you back together before I decide you’re worthless and let you stay dead?!”

But you didn’t, Renfield thought. You never do. You threaten all the time. You beat me. You hurt me. You win arguments with claws and terror. But you always bring me back. You always give me a second chance. Just like you’d have given her another chance.

Dracula was still talking, but Renfield wasn’t even trying to listen anymore.

He’d heard it all so many times.

Why me? Why bring me back again and again? He has a world down there filled with so many who loved him. He could have kept any of them going longer than he did. He always says they didn’t disappoint him the way I do. But it’s me he keeps bringing back. It’s me he’s repaired when my mind isn’t working. It’s me he keeps giving second chances to even when he says he never will. Why me? Why did he throw all of them away?

“Are you listening to me?” Dracula demanded, shaking him harshly.

Renfield felt the pressure against his mind and hastily shoved back, blocking the vampire’s access to his thoughts.

The room turned frigid.

“Did you just-”

“Yes,” Renfield said sharply. “I’m trying to think without your help.”

The world inverted with a roar of fury and a shower of blood.

He was on his back, the full weight of the vampire crushed down upon him, glittering fangs flooding his sight. “You dare?!”

Renfield looked past the fangs to the burning eyes. “Will you kill me, Master? Hurt me? And then what? Will it change anything?”

The vampire probed at his mind again, and Renfield resolutely barred his way.

It wasn’t nearly as hard as he’d expected. A few decades of not having his master constantly in his mind had finally allowed him to hear what his own thoughts sounded like. For the first time in a century, he’d been able to tell the difference when Dracula had come nudging at them once more.

It had just been easier the past months to let go and allow his master to organize his thoughts and choose the direction of his beliefs.

Now…

Dracula’s snarl of rage reverberated through his skull. The vampire hooked his claws through skin and shirt, raised Renfield high, dashed him against the tiled floor…

…and Renfield found himself plummeting back into darkness, swiftly leaving the pain of his shattered skull behind.

As the fog closed around him, he made minimal effort to pull his form into a semblance of shape. He lay on his back, his senses closed as he sought inward.

Here without the distractions of the world. Here he could think.

Dracula had spent his lifetime collecting souls. Renfield had always known that. He’d seen this realm the first time he’d died. He’d always known the fate of the familiars.

But the others…

Were all the millions Dracula had killed here? Every meal? Every human he’d ever slaughtered? No. That was too much for even the godlike vampire. No, just the ones who’d tasted his blood. The familiars. The unfortunate unsworn living in their perpetual limbo.

What of the other vampires? Were they powerful enough to make their own realms or were they confined here?

Renfield would bet on the latter.

All those who’d been Dracula’s in life, confined eternally. Never to leave his side. Reduced down to a singular desire. To serve forever the one who’d claimed their souls.

Their fate in life, their fate in death.

Eternity at the feet of the vampire.

It filled Renfield with both gladness… and horror.

He sifted through his memories, forcing himself to place them in their true order. What had really happened. What he’d buried. What Dracula had buried.

Easier here as always to see his life with the clarity he lacked in reality.

His early memories were pushed past hurriedly. Nothing there he wanted to remember.

The castle in Transylvania. His salvation. But also… a lonely place.

Dracula had had no familiar when Renfield had arrived. And the others? Brides he barely tolerated. Servants who fled in terror the moment they realized what he was – if they weren’t eaten.

Alone.

And then along had come Renfield. Renfield whom Dracula had petted and cared for and played with like a man badly in need of a friend.

Or a dog.

That was it, wasn’t it? Maybe the vampire had wanted companionship, but he’d never considered seeking a relationship of equality.

He’d just… made Renfield into someone who couldn’t run away.

And then he left me.

The thought came unbidden and hurriedly – automatically – pushed aside. And then he forced himself to back up, to really examine it.

Those blissful and wonderful years at his master’s side. Being taught to fight and serve and please the count in every way. Entering so cautiously into his bed and discovering ecstasy unimaginable. Weeping after that his soul was truly corrupted beyond the touch of the church while his master and his god held him tight and assured him that the things mortals called sins were no longer rules which bound him. That he was free of their mandates. Free to be what Dracula wished him to be.

They’d traveled. Gone deep into southern lands where the snow never fell. Where the plants grew leaves in tight and spiky clusters that pricked Renfield’s hands as he sifted among them for insects. Lands of locust and sand flies. Of figs and dates and goat and curry.

And then northeast, where the winters were long and the drinks were potent. Land after land where Renfield’s expectations regarding the rest of humanity were swept aside and he found himself made small with the wonders the world had to offer. He’d followed in a state of awe, drinking in sights and sounds beyond any expectations he’d ever had. Sometimes dining beside his master at the finest tables, sometimes left behind as the loyal servant which the count walked with others who’d be companions or prey for the evening.

But he’d always returned to Renfield. Never left him behind for long.

The good times seemed as if they’d go on forever.

And then suddenly… they hadn’t.

Suddenly Renfield had been sent away. Sent to prepare a path for his master to follow to England. Sent to fulfill the role he’d been brought to serve.

And he’d failed.

No.

He tried to stamp down the thought. He knew he’d failed. Dracula had told him hundreds of times how badly he’d failed.

I failed because I couldn’t be away from him. Because he created me to stay at his side, and then he sent me away.

I didn’t fail. He set me up to fail.

A chill ran through him. An immediate and absolute denial of the thought.

No, Master couldn’t have…

But he’d known! He’d told Renfield after that he’d known what would happen to a familiar separated too long.

He sent me to my own destruction… and then he punished me for it.

“You are here again?”

Renfield opened his eyes.

The shades clustered thick around him, the trio looking down at him with particular suspicion.

“Have you displeased the master?” Gilles demanded. “Have you failed him?”

Renfield had spent a lifetime surrendering to those who threatened. To those who demonstrated superior force. But now… it seemed so frivolous.

“Are the other vampires here?” he asked, deliberately ignoring Gilles and not bothering to rise from his reclined and indifferently vulnerable position. “The ones Master created?”

“Yes,” Awatif replied. “Some are in the castle with the master. Some are… out there.” She gestured vaguely into the mist.

“Why have you been killed a second time so soon?” Gilles demanded once more.

Renfield continued to focus on Awatif. “Are they the same as… as everyone else here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do they think for themselves? Or only about the master?”

“There is nothing but the master!” Gilles snarled.

Something stirred briefly in Awatif’s blank face. “They are as we have become,” she said softly.

“But you remember,” Renfield pressed, rising to what constituted an upright position. “You remember when you thought about more than him.”

There was warring in the shade for a moment, a moment of struggling and seeking and…

The blankness returned. “Nothing matters besides the master,” she declared, and the other shades echoed her on cue. “All else is swept away.”

“Right,” Renfield murmured hollowly.

This was what he was going to turn into, wasn’t it? He’d already been like this for a century at least. He’d run away in a last-ditch effort to not turn completely into a hollow automaton.

No, that wasn’t true. No, whatever lies he told himself about going to seek himself, it hadn’t been himself he was seeking.

It was Dracula.

Dracula as he’d been at the beginning. When he’d found Renfield shivering outside his gates and brought him inside like a discarded kitten in a rainstorm. Dracula as he’d been the first time Renfield had lost his mind. When he’d taken him away into the country and treated him with care and gentleness until Renfield’s mind was stable again.

Those times Renfield had truly believed his master loved him.

Not the long stretches in between when he was forgotten. A useful machine to clean and fetch and dispose of bodies. When Master barely looked at him, let alone cared that he existed.

That was why he’d really run, wasn’t it? To see if Dracula would chase him.

And he’d gotten what he’d wanted, hadn’t he? All the care and attention he’d desired. Even the current state of his body – proof that Dracula cared about his existence enough to kill him.

And bring him back.

“Why did Master kill you?!” Gilles pressed, shoving flush against Renfield and snarling as intimidating as a shade could.

“That’s not the right question,” Renfield murmured. “The real question is… why didn’t he bring you back?”

Gilles recoiled. And the rest of his triumvirate with him.

Renfield advanced on them. “Every familiar here… Master sent them here. Either he killed them, or they died and he didn’t revive them, or they ran away and were killed. Which were you? All of you?”

The shades retreated in mass, cringing as Renfield pursued.

“What makes him give up on us?” he continued. “Reduce us down to… to nothing. He does it when we’re still alive if he can. And then dumps us here for… why? What’s the point? Is he trying to take over the world? Or… the next world? What’s going on?”

The shades had no answers. They bunched together, shying away from the singular question of what had brought them to this moment.

“Why did we swear ourselves to him?” Renfield went on more to himself than the crowd. “Truly. What did we see when we looked at him? And… was it worth it?”

There were no answers here. Nor was there time. He was being drawn back…

---

Returning to life was agony as it always was – his consciousness reviving itself to registering stimuli before his body had finished healing so that he was fully aware of the torture of his skull piecing itself back together. He screamed throughout the process, nearly dashing his head open once more against the tiled floor at the squelching agony of bone fragments burrowing out of his brain matter and back where they belonged.

Dracula held him throughout the misery, and the look in his eye wavered between arousal and… fear? Concern?

Something Renfield rarely saw, whatever it was. Some emotion that held Dracula back from having his way with his familiar immediately on the bathroom floor.

Renfield was aware as he moved that his clothes were stiff and dry. His throat gasped for water, his stomach for food.

Neither were likely to appear immediately.

Not with the fallout which was about to occur.

He felt the vampire reach into his mind and blocked the intrusion once more.

Dracula rumbled a wordless warning. Renfield watched the vampire’s chest heave with heavy and unnecessary breaths.

“Servant,” Dracula began cautiously, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. I suppose making your first kill in years was a little upset-”

“No,” Renfield interrupted flatly as he sat up, ignoring the monster crouched over him who was forced to retreat as the familiar bumped against him. “No, the kill went just fine. I did exactly as you asked.”

A long stretch of silence. “Well?” Dracula asked at last.

Renfield gazed boldly back into those red-flecked eyes. “Why did you wait so long to come for me?”

The vampire frowned. “After you had the audacity to kill me and run off, you think you get to decide when I pull you out of the cesspool of your own ma-”

“I don’t mean now. I mean…” He sat up straighter, not looking away from the glaring eyes. “You sent me to London to buy you property. You knew what would happen to me when you did that. You knew I’d lose my mind. But you sent me anyway.”

Dracula rolled his eyes. “I assumed you were competent enough to finish your tasks before succumbing to-”

“No you didn’t.”

Dracula flung him back to the ground and sank his claws into Renfield’s neck. “Careful, Servant.”

Renfield’s heart hammered wildly. No matter how resolved he was to go down this road, he was hardly eager to endure the pain of dying a third time in such quick succession. “You might have come to England as soon as I’d purchased the first property. But you stayed overseas and told me to stay where I was even when my mind started slipping. You knew what was happening to me, even if I didn’t. You deliberately kept me away.” He forced himself to meet the blazing eyes once more. “You created me to need to be by your side, and then you forced us apart. What did I do wrong? Why did you punish me like that?”

Dracula’s claws sank deeper, heavy hands beginning to choke the breath from Renfield’s lungs. And then, abruptly, they retreated.

“Clean up here,” the vampire snarled as he stalked out of the bathroom. “Get rid of anything you’ve touched. We hardly need the police hunting for us again thanks to your bungling.”

Renfield climbed as high at the rim of the tub and sat with bowed head, breathing slowly as his lungs remembered how to behave.

It was several minutes before Dracula stormed back into the room. “Servant,” he snarled, every tense step screaming with warning of mounting outrage.

Renfield looked up at him quietly. “You can beat me all you wish, Master. Kill me as many times as it pleases you. Bury my memories in hopes they’ll never resurface. But it won’t make the questions go away forever. Sooner or later I’ll come back to wondering.” He tried not to tremble as Dracula loomed over him. “Master… Why did you send me away? What was it I’d done wrong?”

Silence. A long and poignant silence in which Renfield envisioned what his head would look like decapitated from his body once Dracula’s rage boiled over.

“Nothing,” the vampire said abruptly, his eyes averted and distant. “You were… tolerable.”

Renfield gained his feet on shaky legs. Cautiously, he put a hand on the count’s arm. “I’d served you nearly thirty years by then. I’d tried to be everything you wanted me to be. I think…” A small smile tugged at his lips. “…you found me more than tolerable.”

Dracula remained focused on the distance, so deliberately refusing to acknowledge Renfield’s presence and touch as to make his awareness absolute.

“It’s been… decades. Nearly two centuries now. I can’t imagine a life beyond you. Even when I tried to be on my own… I knew I’d always come back here.” He stood before the vampire now. Both hands straying up the forearms, the shoulders, the neck. “At your side. At your call. Where I’ve always wished to belong.”

Dracula still refused to look at him.

Renfield cupped his hands to the vampire’s temples and brought their foreheads together, stooping a little with the flicker of surprise to remember that he was the taller of the two when he wasn’t cowering. “My mind’s been yours for centuries. I think… I think it’s time it went the other way. I think it’s time you showed me how you truly feel.”

There’d been a bond between them since the day Dracula had crafted him to serve. A bond used to order and control and chain.

A bond that perhaps went both ways.

Renfield reached out his mind and followed the chain between them, the link forged in promises and blood and devotion and pain. A link damaged so recently with distance and betrayal but still unbroken.

And on the other side… a whirlpool of thoughts and hunger and blood. A mind so old, so alien, that anyone might have drowned in it.

But Renfield had brushed against it for years. He was prepared to face the flood.

And he made himself stare into the abyss.

Chapter 22: The Choice Between the Power of a God and the Pathetic Desperation of Humanity

Before…

Renfield was kneeling before the coffin when Dracula arose for the evening.

Kneeling… and shuddering.

Dracula sighed and rolled his eyes skyward. “What have you done?” he asked.

His familiar flicked guilty eyes up to him, then back to the floor. “There’s a young man waiting in the dining hall for you, Master. He extols of the virtues of chastity before marriage and declares his intentions of joining the church.”

Dracula sighed. “Stop attempting to soften my wrath with gifts. Out with it.”

A last tremor ran down Renfield’s spine. “I… I enlisted.”

“What.”

The threat of war on the continent had been increasing by the day. Whatever attempts at negotiations or neutrality on England’s part were over. The cries for service rang through the land. The army needed bodies. Men. Horses. Dogs. Supplies. Rations. The demand for every individual to do their part grew louder as each wave of soldiers marched away.

And stupid little Renfield had apparently gotten swept along in patriotic fervor enough to find himself in a recruitment line.

“Renfield,” Dracula said with long-suffering exasperation. “Your soul isn’t yours.”

“I know, Master. I just heard everyone talking about protecting England, and the women accusing anyone not joining of cowardice, and the soldiers saying it was our duty to fight. And I… forgot.”

“Forgot.”

It had happened at last. As it always did. Sooner or later every one of them proved unworthy. Weak or disloyal or feckless.

And it had happened again. Just as he’d known it would. Just as it had happened before…

---

---

“The emperor is calling for every noble to volunteer as many of their serfs as possible to join the army and drive out the French invaders. How many recruits can we expect from you?”

“None,” Dracula answered in a bored tone, savoring the shock and horror of his fervent guests.

“None? What can you possibly mean?”

“None. Zero. I’ll not send you lives to slaughter wastefully.”

The nobles gasped and droned on for quite a while with demands of ‘don’t you care about mother Russia’ and ‘this is a time for us all to make sacrifices’ and ‘how will you hold your head high in society if you do not’.

Dracula half listened and resisted the urge to eat the lot of them.

He’d held his estate in Russia for some two hundred years, disappearing periodically for a few decades and returning as his own son, a pretense that was only halfway believed. His serfs knew him to be a monster, but he kept them well-fed and well-managed - watching over their health and breeding like the cattle they were – which was more than many serfs could expect from their masters, and so they gave up their blood and occasionally sacrificed a life as he demanded in return for safety and basic needs.

Humans were little more than sheep, really. They’d sacrifice quite a lot in the name of security.

He’d weathered a few annoyances in the country – the enthusiastic spread of Catholicism had been irritating – but overall Russia had been good to him.

Not enough for him to feel any need to defend it from Napoleon and his ridiculous march of conquest.

Whether it was that self-conceited fool or whichever whelp of Catherine’s line currently held the throne, life would go on about the same.

Dracula had little interest in defending ideology if it meant his human cattle would die wasted deaths far from where he could benefit from their blood.

The nobles shouted at him for a while longer but eventually had to recognize that no traction was to be gained against the resolute vampire. They departed with curses and threats which Dracula ignored with a roll of his eyes.

“Ilyá!” he called to his familiar. “Next time don’t let fools like that through the door!”

Ilyá appeared, bright eyed and eternally cheerful. “But Master! They are the defenders of the motherland!”

“They’re fat fools who want others to donate their resources so they can avoid doing the same,” Dracula grumbled. “And if they expect me to join their ridiculous cause, they’re even more demented than I thought.”

Ilyá looked utterly scandalized. “Won’t you be joining the army? There is so much good you could do!” He trailed on his master’s heels as Dracula stalked through the manor and into the library. “You could eradicate the French curs with a wave of your hand!”

“Why would I want to?’ Dracula rumbled, seating himself at his desk and picking up a pen. “The larder isn’t large enough for that much blood.” He bent his head and tried to ignore the familiar who stood quivering too obviously before him.

Ilyá had been in his service some forty years and his familiar for the past thirty. Dracula had found him as a boy of ten or so being beaten by his drunken father and had taken him back to the manor in a rare show of pity. The boy had been clever and loyal, and quick to offer himself when Dracula was in need of a new familiar. He’d survived the ritual, received his portion of the vampire’s powers… and then disappeared for three days. He’d returned to lay the corpse of his father at his master’s feet, quivering like a dog pleased to have brought back a ball.

He'd been little trouble since then, albeit a randy and pleasure-loving specimen of humanity.

He’d sired at least seventeen sons, and was still unmarried as far as Dracula knew. Normally Dracula might have restricted his familiars from seeking lives beyond his side, but Ilyá never noticed rules, always telling his master (sometimes in too-enthusiastic details) about his feminine conquests – willing or otherwise.

And he brought every infant to the vampire’s feet, dedicating it to his master’s service with the devotion of the faithful before the church’s gilded cross. He’d raised his sons up in Dracula’s service, and Dracula looked the other way while Ilyá eagerly bred him a new generation of devoted lackeys.

He liked Ilyá, loath as he ever was to admit feeling any affection for any of his slaves. Ilyá had outlasted many of his predecessors and basked in a great number of liberties and privileges thanks to his willing and cheerful service. His misbehavior was met more often with an affectionate roll of the eyes and a sigh than outright punishment.

Sometimes Dracula thought he’d gone too soft in his advancing years as he allowed the familiar more laxity than he ought.

Sometimes… But it was nice to have someone smile so fearlessly and lovingly up at him.

Ilyá wasn’t smiling now.

“How?” he stuttered, looking as if his heart would break. “Would you truly… abandon your country in her hour of need?”

“It isn’t my country, Ilyá,” Dracula growled. “It’s a tract of land with a name that will change a thousand times before this world is destroyed in fire and seas. What matters to me who rules it?”

“The French would destroy who we are and everything we stand for!”

Dracula rolled his eyes skyward. “Most of the nobility can’t even speak Russian. What are you losing if Bonapart claims this land as he has most of Europe? He won’t keep it. Empires come and go. What difference does it make to me?”

“It makes a difference to us,” Ilyá insisted. “Your people. Will you not fight for us?”

“No.”

The familiar’s eyes bored into him as if seeking any chink in the vampire’s frigid armor. “Then…” He swallowed painfully. “Then I go to fight alone.”

“No, you won’t,” Dracula replied patiently.

“But Russia…”

“Russia shouldn’t matter to you. Napoleon shouldn’t matter to you. You’re mine.” Dracula glared back at his familiar coldly. “Sometimes you forget who you serve. If I say no one on this estate will join the army, that is the end of it.” He bent back to his correspondence. “Spread the word. See that any other recruiters are kept out.”

Ilyá continued to stare at him.

“You’re dismissed,” Dracula rumbled.

“Master…” Ilyá’s expression warred through incredulity and eventually settled into sorrow. “I… I can’t obey these words.”

“Can’t?!”

Ilyá recoiled nervously. “Master, my soul and body are yours. But my heart… my heart is with my people. My country. I cannot turn my back on them now.”

And though Dracula threatened and ordered, the familiar saw no reason.

When Dracula awoke the next day, he could sense his familiar already far into the distance. And many like-minded fools with him.

None of them returned from the war.

---

“Welcome home, my beloved,” Dracula purred as he helped the young woman from the carriage.

“It’s… it’s…” Verona floundered, her eyes gazing up at the crumbling spectacle which was the Transylvanian castle.

“It needs some repairs,” Dracula agreed. “But it’s a marvel, truly. For you and for me, it will be paradise.”

Dracula had quit his estate long before the French and Russian armies had jointly stripped it of everything remotely useful. His well-kept serfs were fled or slaughtered, no use gained from the lot of them.

He’d roamed the winter landscape, feasting wantonly on the blood of soldiers and peasants alike, forgetting the refined manners he’d maintained for centuries in favor of being what he truly was – the solitary hunter. The beast of the shadows. The nightmare which haunted all of humanity with no hope of companionship or rest.

As the French retreated in starving condition, and the Russian army pursued in equally starving condition, Dracula fed until the bodies were too wasted and diseased to be the least pleasurable. Then he’d turned his back on the country and walked away, leaving behind the memories of what he’d built and the humans he’d thought were worth his time.

He’d gone southeast, roaming along the Caspian Sea and killing heedlessly for a long time before remembering himself enough to creep from the wilderness, done civilized clothes, and reacquaint himself with human culture.

He’d taken a few familiars, discarding them after months or a year at most, finding none of suitable nature for whatever it was he sought. When he returned northward to collect his scattered finances, he found a few bitter war veterans who amused him for brief times with their hatred of those who’d destroyed their lives, but the amusement was short-lived, and he disposed of them quickly.

But eventually he’d encountered Verona and Ferrazze, and in them he’d found young innocents easily drawn into his care, easily swayed to follow where he led.

They’d traveled, Dracula showing the siblings the wonders of the world. All that could be theirs if they swore themselves to him.

And after a few years of seduction, both nearly salivated to give over their souls to him.

One as bride, one as familiar.

A perfect family to bring back home.

So here they were, staring up at the damaged but still standing walls of the castle he’d erected on the spot where once he’d been formed long before this land held any name. And here they would stay. A new life. A new start.

---

Dracula flew up the steps, Ferrazze’s frantic death screams echoing in his mind as he burst into the chamber.

Verona crouched over her brother’s body, her teeth sunk into his neck, drawing the blood from him in a relentless stream.

Dracula seized her hair and threw her across the room, oblivious to her shriek of pain as the wall shook and bones shattered under impact.

“Ferrazze!” he gasped, shaking the lifeless body. “You can’t…”

He tore his wrist open and let the blood drip, knowing even as he did that it was useless.

He could hear Verona crying pathetically where she’d fallen. Eventually, she dragged herself closer, whimpering a self-pitying sound. “What’s wrong with him? Why won’t he wake up?”

“You drained his blood,” Dracula rumbled.

“You can fix him, can’t you?”

“You drained his blood,” the vampire snarled. “There’s nothing to fix. There’s nothing to keep the body alive. You’ve killed him.”

That awoke the girl to reality at long last. “No! No, I couldn’t have! I only took… It was just a little…”

Dracula pounced, taking out his fury on the sobbing and protesting form. “I’ve told you a thousand times to control your urges! You take unnecessary risks and bring the hunters down on us! You can’t control your feedings, and your brother now pays the price!”

He slammed her broken body against the wall, crushing her throat beneath his unyielding grip. “He was mine! My familiar! You had no right to touch him! You live at my sufferance, and believe me, my bride, you’ve long exhausted most of that.”

He flung her to the ground, feeling little pleasure in the cracking noise of her skull. “You’ll live,” he rumbled. “But it will be long before you see the outside of your coffin.”

He’d feed her on drips and sparse mouthfuls. The blood of withered peasants whose strength was long sapped. He’d keep her weak and crawling for a few years at least. Make her beg and grovel for every drop of sustenance.

She wasn’t worth his love anymore than any of his other brides had been.

He’d scattered them across the world and across the centuries. His brides, his companions. Made in his image out of clay of those who’d best pleased him among humanity. The creatures he’d found most amusing, most worth preserving to travel beside him on into eternity.

And they were all gone now.

Some he’d killed, finding them unworthy of his gift. Some still existed, ruling paltry empires of their own making, declaring themselves his successors or superiors. Grubbing in the shadows upon vermin and lowlife, decrying his name for the curse he’d wrought upon them.

Some had run, some had been left behind. He wanted to see none of them again nor they he. They were connected enough that he felt the blow each time a hunter came upon them and severed what remained of their souls from the living world. And he smiled each time he felt another flung into the depths where it would feel his power forever.

None had proven worthy to stand at his side for the ages to come.

And Verona was no better.

Unable to control her appetite, unwilling to behave properly servile before him, incapable of respecting his rules.

What had he ever seen in her?

---

“What do you expect me to do with her?” Dracula asked, glaring at the peasant girl Verona and Marishka had brought before him.

On the return journey to Transylvania after several decades abroad, Dracula had harbored hopes that the women had abandoned the castle on their own. Regretfully they were still alive, though they’d clearly been hunting heedlessly. He’d passed one village which was practically a ghost town, just a few ragged individuals huddling in homes etched from top to bottom in holy symbols.

They were lucky the women were weak or else even this warding wouldn’t have dissuaded the hungry vampires from finding a way inside – with or without permission to enter.

But they’d found one peasant somewhere. A pretty and vibrant young thing. She looked rather delicious. Amazing they hadn’t torn her asunder already.

“We wish her to be our sister,” Verona declared.

Dracula looked down at the girl, then back to his bride. “No.”

Verona’s eyes narrowed. “You will give her your gift, and she will be one of us.”

Dracula stood taller, his lips curled back in warning. “You think to threaten me?”

Verona stood her ground, defiant and cold even as Marishka lost her nerve and huddled behind the others. “You abandoned us. Left us to fend for ourselves. Feeding upon such meager leavings in this desolate place.”

“And adding another vampire to your numbers will fill your bellies?” Dracula asked.

“In a pack of three, we will be strong. Aleera is fierce. She will be a fine hunter. As you will not run with us, we choose another to be our family.”

Dracula scoffed and turned away. “I don’t run with you because you’re too reckless to tolerate. It’s a wonder you haven’t lost control and killed the girl. After what you did when I chose one to be your familiar.” He nodded at Marishka who shrank further from him.

Irritating that she clung to Verona as protector, considering which of them had nearly bled her dry in a compulsive fit of bloodlust while Dracula had been preparing the circle to bind her as a familiar to Verona. When a repentant Verona had brought him the body, the choice had been between making a new vampire or killing her outright. Verona had begged for the former, swearing she’d be entirely content with a sister and that they’d both be as tractable as Dracula could desire once they were permitted to run in the world.

Of course it hadn’t worked that way. He’d chosen Marishka for her meekness, and she was wholly swayed by the headstrong Verona. Instead of a familiar to bring the reckless killer blood and temper her sprees, Verona had gained a partner to share in her rash and wild hunts.

The prospect of a third – one chosen to Verona’s liking – filled him with not the least confidence.

They were terrors enough as a pair. As three…

“If we are three, we can travel further abroad in search of game,” Verona pressed. “Otherwise, we two may have to seek sustenance… closer.”

Her eyes flicked meaningfully to Renfield as the familiar trudged past carrying Dracula’s heavy traveling trunk. Renfield, keeping his eyes carefully averted from the vampires, failed to notice he’d abruptly become the subject of conversation.

Dracula had Verona against the wall with his fist squeezed around her neck the instant Renfield was out of sight. “You dare threaten…”

The vampire cackled fearlessly. “So, our mighty master does have a weakness, hmm? Did you take him away from here for fear we’d play with him too roughly? We did so hope he’d join our games.”

Dracula suspected he failed to completely mask the anxiety which flashed through his mind.

He hadn’t taken Renfield abroad entirely because of the women.

It had been in the second year with the familiar that he’d decided to do some traveling.

Renfield had been fairly well trained by then. For someone from a family with upper class leanings, he’d taken well to service. A smile of approval practically made him melt with joy and a simple hand raised in warning was enough to send him scrambling to obey.

Dracula hadn’t thought much past wanting a new familiar to play with during the long winter and something warm in his bed that could take more wear and tear than an ordinary human. Coaxing Renfield into his bed had taken longer than convincing him to swear away his soul, but it had been worth it for the way the repressed creature collapsed all over himself, desperate for Dracula’s touch while also sobbing as if desire was a worse sin than murder.

The most fun a pet that Dracula had had in ages.

And since he hadn’t been bored when winter ended, and since Renfield still held value in conversing with him in English, he’d taken pains to train the creature as a proper servant and companion.

Renfield’s knowledge of the world was limited, and Dracula had soon bored of his simple stories. He’d discarded many creatures when their ability to amuse him had waned, but Renfield showed enough potential that Dracula had chosen education instead of drinking him dry.

So, he’d dusted off his traveling coffin and set off southward with his wide-eyed familiar in tow.

Renfield had asked tentatively why they weren’t headed for England, but having been sharply told that the count would journey there when it pleased him to do so and not a moment sooner, he’d said no more and accepted their open-ended itinerary without a murmur.

They’d leisurely followed the coastline down to Istanbul, taking up residence there and becoming well-known among the city’s upper class. They’d used that as a base of operations for a time – making short trips inland for days or weeks, then returning to the city whenever Dracula decided it was time for a rest.

Eventually he’d grown bored with the city, and they’d crossed into the Mediterranean, roaming leisurely among the islands.

Sometimes he’d introduced Renfield as companion or friend, sometimes as servant. Behind closed doors, he’d trained his familiar in precisely what he desired in a companion and slave, and Renfield yielded to his every whim, performing as an increasingly adept manservant and whatever other roles Dracula wished him to fulfill even if he remained squeamish at the prospect of ever killing anyone.

Keeping him out of his depths and friendless had worked wonderfully. Renfield had bonded with him as the only stability in a strange and changing world. Dracula had sparred with him regularly, teaching hand-to-hand combat and knife fighting – an activity which generally ended when Renfield had failed to duck too many times and was threatening to bleed out. A good exercise for him on multiple fronts. He’d grown rather good at taking a knife to the belly with merely a whimper.

They’d made it as far as Tripoli before they’d run into trouble.

And that had been where Renfield had proved his true loyalty.

Dracula wasn’t certain what had given them away to the hunters, but the religious had come with their icons and weapons and desperation to rid their land of a monster.

He’d fought alone, and expected to fight alone, killing or scattering the group with experienced ease until the leader had smashed his head with an incense burner, leaving him temporarily blinded and dazed from the fumes as they’d stabbed repeatedly with something silver and consecrated.

And then… the stabbing had stopped.

He’d opened his eyes to behold Renfield, bloodied knife in hand, staring down in a frozen stupor at the convulsing body of the man he’d just killed. He’d tried to choke out instructions, but he’d lost consciousness before he could manage.

He’d been awoken by jostling against the most recent kill as the coffin he and the body had been stuffed into was dragged out of their residence. He’d drained the body quickly, reaching out to Renfield’s mind to warily judge his familiar’s intentions.

What had flooded back to him had been such love and devotion that he’d rarely experienced.

Oh, his familiars and followers were devoted to him, that was always certain. Worshiped as a god, sacrificed to with religious zeal. But there was always so much fear – the most accustomed emotion he knew from humanity.

And after an attack like this, he always anticipated a shattering of belief, a terror to find their god to be weak. Vulnerable.

A thing to be pitied.

There had been none of that in Renfield’s mind. If anything, his devotion had redoubled to find himself now thrust into the proactive role. He’d found a ship which would take them away, installed the coffin in the lowest depths, and lured several passengers down to their doom.

He’d been the perfect nursemaid. Assertive enough to get them away from danger, submissive enough that Dracula felt no humiliation to appear weak before him. And his attentive care had never wavered for a second as he’d sacrificed sleep and sustenance to watch over his weakened master day after day until Dracula stood in his full power once more.

They’d traveled on for years, touring the holy lands until Dracula grew tired of the heat and set a course northward, eventually returning to the long-abandoned Russia to see what had become of the place while he’d been away.

They’d freed the serfs. How cute.

Eventually he’d felt the call of his homeland as he always did, and back to Transylvania they’d gone, Dracula hoping for a length of quiet repose with the new additions to his library and his docile pet between his thighs.

Instead, this was the greeting he received.

Verona smiled, toothy and fearless. “Give me the girl. Let me have a new companion. The three of us shall swear to leave your pet alone. Won’t we all be pleased by this arrangement? Isn’t this the best way for us to live in harmony?”

“I should kill you here and now,” Dracula rumbled.

“Do it,” Verona jeered. “Marishka’s fast. She’ll reach your slave before you’re finished with me.” She stroked the side of his face, wriggling her suspended body with serpentine allure. “Come now, lord and husband of mine. Won’t it please you more to delight in the three of us? You’ll have us for the hunt and the celebration afterwards. And your little pet will be safe to use as you please. Isn’t this the family you so crave?”

---

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

It wasn’t the safest occupation – drifting off outside the security of his coffin. Even within his own castle where the windows were covered and his companions were cowed enough not to attack him in his sleep.

He stretched lazily, enjoying the warm weight of the familiar pillowed against his chest.

Not quite as warm as he should have been.

The fire had gone out, and the naked Renfield shivered as he pressed closer to the frail warmth of the vampire.

Dracula hooked a blanket with one claw and tucked it around Renfield’s shoulders. He brushed back a lock of hair from the man’s sweat-stained forehead. The familiar smiled in his sleep, mumbling a purring sound of approval.

Dracula smiled in response. He dipped his head low, dropping a slow and tender kiss between Renfield’s eyes.

And then he froze. Straightened. Recoiled. Shoved aside that pleasant little worm of something nuzzling at his heart.

No! No, he couldn’t pretend… grow attached… think for a second…

They all left him in the end. Disappointed him. Abandoned him. Proved ceaselessly that tug of humanity was stronger than loyalty to their master.

They’d all failed him eventually.

Renfield would be no different.

Perhaps he’d been the sweetest of pets for the past decades. Perhaps he’d been a dedicated killer, a devoted guard, an unimpeachable servant. But he’d fail. He’d fall. In the end he’d be as useless and untrustworthy as the rest.

The blow to the groin awoke Renfield in a hurry. He shrieked his alarm and fright as Dracula pitched him to the icy ground.

“How dare you let me sleep outside my coffin!” Dracula snarled, looming over his trembling and groveling familiar. “How dare you be so careless as to sleep when the sun leaves me vulnerable!”

“I-I’m sorry, Master!” Renfield panted in a dazed and terrified voice, clearly baffled how they’d gone from a long and lazy night of sex to a late morning punishment.

“If you can’t be trusted to be on guard when you ought, you’re of no use to me. In fact… it’s past time you stopped lazing about and performed your intended purpose.”

“My… Do you wish me to hunt for you, Master?” the familiar guessed blindly.

Dracula kicked the stupidity out of him. “England, you fool! I required your service to prepare for my coming there, and you’ve done nothing! You’ll return there at once! Purchase my estate and arrange my travel. Multiple estates,” he added. “I want land. Homes in my name all over the country. Retreats and hideaways as well as proper grand affairs. You’ll go and seek them out. Immediately.”

“Go?” Renfield dragged himself to his knees and clasped Dracula around one bare ankle. “Please, Master! Don’t send me away! I won’t fall asleep ever again! I’ll do whatever you ask. Anything! Please don’t dismiss me from your presence!”

His babbling was silenced by another kick, and by the time Dracula was through with him, Renfield was ready to promise anything which would make the pain cease.

Dracula stormed away, snarling over his shoulder that he’d heal Renfield once the familiar had earned it. Until then, Renfield had better make preparations for his trip. Immediately.

This would be the end of it, Dracula thought as he threw himself into his coffin and yanked the lid closed. Renfield wouldn’t survive abroad for long. He’d serve his purpose, and then he could be discarded like the rest of them.

Placed in the depths. In the shadowlands from whence no soul escaped.

Where none could flee Dracula’s embrace ever again.

---

---

He’d been loyal longer than any of them. Even when his mind had shattered. One lapse back when his mind had been adrift, but Dracula had forgiven that.

He’d had to.

Because the alternative…

But it hadn’t mattered. A few more years and the faithless familiar had…

“Maybe you could come with me, Master?”

Dracula froze. “Me? A soldier?”

“You were one before.” Renfield lifted his eyes hopefully. “You’ve told me about your great battles. You’ve told me about how well you’ve fed on the fields. I know you have no reason to fight for this country…” He paused and considered. “I don’t think I have one either. It’s not my home anymore. You’re my home, Master. But…” He shuddered and bowed his head back to the floor. “I’ll desert if you want me to. Of course I’ll stay wherever you wish or follow you anywhere. But… could we fight? They say the war won’t last long. The Germans will be repelled in no time. We haven’t traveled in a long time.” His eyes darted up, once more hopeful and adorably meek. “Maybe you’d enjoy seeing other lands again?”

Dracula stared down at the long-enduring familiar. At the creature who’d bled for him, fought for him, killed for him time and again. Who engendered a sensation of… of things he could never feel.

Because eventually this one would betray him.

Just like all the others.

But not today.

“Very well,” he said with a long sigh somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Let us prepare to go to war.”

Notes:

Finally quoted the actual Renfield movie for a chapter title. I just love Mark in that scene. "We're kneeling now? Is that what we're doing? I guess it's the correct response to a scary flying man."

I took the vampire brides' names from Van Helsing which seems to be the only movie that gives all three of them names. I named Verona's brother after a town near Verona, Italy, because I'm so funny when naming OCs who only appear once.

Although no jokes were made regarding a resemblance between Renfield and a certain Russian monarch... they were definitely echoing in my brain.

My coworkers ask why I decide to read War and Peace? Obviously so I can write fanfic scenes about the French invasion of Russia. Why else?

I feel like this chapter could have been the darkest Doctor Who fanfic ever with very little tweaking. Or maybe I just wrote 'companion' too many times, and now it's in my head.

Chapter 23: Resolve

Now…

Renfield drew out of the onslaught of memories with difficulty, gripping the sink with one hand to keep from stumbling.

He’d seen one thread of memories… and so much more.

Memory after memory overlaid in resounding waves of chaos.

Every memory sparking more recollections, some deteriorated with age, others crisp and clear and filled with unhealed wounds.

He saw the familiars – those he’d encountered in the world beyond – struggling to escape their master’s thrall or failing so often as to be unworthy of service.

Gilles, begging for a woman he’d come to love to be transformed as well, or to be released from his vows so he might stay with her.

Awatif killing herself over and over as guilt of her sins overwhelmed her mind and she strove to set herself free from the memories of her actions.

Others turning on their master or choosing the pull of humanity over him. Others simply growing careless, lazy, disinterested in performing to the best of their abilities.

Others becoming perfect… too perfect. Mindless thralls with no spark of life left in them. No joy as they performed their tasks, their minds and personalities long gone from the world while their bodies still functioned mechanically.

And the companions - the ones created in the master’s image. Those were ugly memories of fledglings abandoning the nest to stretch their wings beyond their sire’s control. Turning on their maker and departing in bloodshed and anger. Decrying him as old, controlling, cruel, useless. Abandoning the one who’d wished them to stay at his side in favor of seeking new heights.

They were Dracula’s memories. His perceptions. His skewered versions of events. Every mistake on a familiar’s part, every restless straining of a fledgling – proof that he’d chosen wrong again. That his latest creation would leave him. Just like all the others.

If he didn’t leave them first.

Renfield rubbed his forehead as a headache throbbed against his temples.

No one should have that many lifetimes in one head. It was enough to drive someone insane.

Actually…

He studied his master from the corner of his eye.

Dracula was… not behaving as Renfield would have expected.

His anger was gone. He hardly appeared distressed to have had his mental sanctum violated.

Maybe he’d desired it.

He could have forced Renfield away at any time. Could have taken control with a single strike or command. But he’d allowed his familiar to see.

And now…

The vampire moved about in an erratic fashion, enacting random displacement behaviors of straightening the decomposing corpse and checking that the faucets were turned off.

Seeking something to do in the small confines of the bathroom.

Anything to avoid looking at Renfield.

Renfield’s own memories of the Great War sang clearly in his mind now. They’d gone abroad, Dracula’s coffin slipped aboard a ship filled with crates and Renfield marching in uniform under the command of someone pretentious who talked nonstop about how easily their cowardly opponents would fall.

Things had been simple at first. Walking from place to place. Loading and unloading wagons. Standing guard for all hours of the night.

And then the fighting had truly begun.

Dracula had followed as a wraith. Concealing his coffin in secluded woodlots or barns. Sometimes spending his days hidden in cellars or abandoned ruins. Sometimes he’d bury himself in soil where death had occurred – this apparently holding the same rejuvenating powers as his coffin.

Once a grave robber had dug down upon him, only for Dracula to drag one foot under and drain him, leaving a partially buried corpse to engender fabulous stories about the monsters who haunted battlefields.

While Dracula fed well upon soldiers and escaping peasants, Renfield found himself pulled relentlessly between two callings.

Too often, he was caught sneaking into or out of camp when Dracula summoned him, receiving a few floggings for his apparent cowardness. He’d spent more time in punishment duties than actually fighting, though he saw his share of combat and found his stomach turned by the senseless killing of a war over nothing.

It had almost been a relief when he’d been hung for desertion.

After that, master and familiar had roamed at random, trailing the armies until the trenches and barbed wire and the gas became unendurable. They’d taken themselves to more neutral lands, staying near the fringe where escaping refugees offered easy pickings before Dracula’s hunger for culture and amusement outweighed his pleasure in easy blood.

They’d never returned to England.

Paris. Vienna. Venice. Living in fine hotels – generally without paying a cent – or guests of the upper class – often without the hosts knowing how they’d invited the foreign aristocrat and his awkward valet into their homes. Good food, strong wine. Opera. Ballet. Theatre. Cabarets.

Living out the post war lean years in ease and luxury.

Berlin once the city had rebuilt. Berlin of new ideas and liberal ideologies. Berlin, where it seemed the party would never end.

Hitler had delighted Dracula. He’d considered the radio broadcasts to be the best comedy hour humanity had ever provided. He’d awaken early just to listen in, and then talk Renfield’s ear off about idiot humans and their delusional ideas of purity.

“Some human or other is always sure they’re from the only ‘right’ branch of the species,” he’d said. “They usually end up slaughtered by whatever appearance they’ve decided is lesser than themselves. And they never learn how much they all taste alike.”

They’d returned to France when Germany grew more militant and, in Dracula’s opinion, ‘boring’. But the prospect of another war made him salivate for good hunting, and he kept a close ear on the axis powers and their dreams of expansion.

They’d traveled to Czechoslovakia as soon as the invasion was over and from there up to Finland for the Winter War where Dracula probably helped the Finnish more than he intended by picking off so many lost and scared Russian troops as to add weight to the rumors of cannibalism.

Once things settled down there, they’d roamed southward, further into the brewing European chaos.

They were in Poland – Warsaw to be exact – when everything changed.

Dracula had gone out one night, saying he’d heard about some sort of internment going on within the city that sounded like a buffet waiting to be indulged. He’d returned with a look on his face that Renfield had never seen before and an icy curtness in his manner as he’d announced that they were leaving immediately.

They’d had to travel by night since it sometimes took both of them to fight through the checkpoints, and Dracula’s sudden enthusiasm for eating anyone wearing a swastika meant that Renfield often spent long and terrifying days crouched beside the coffin in inadequate hiding spaces, gulping down bugs ceaselessly to keep awake and alert for snipers.

At least it had kept him supplied in German uniforms enough to sometimes stride into towns for food on confidently clicking stormtrooper boots and hope that his grasp of the language was still passable.

He’d had to beg Dracula to switch his diet to Russian soldiers long enough to acquire a uniform once they’d gotten over the border and made their way up to Petersburg.

Renfield had asked once, and only once, what had happened to distress his master so. And once his lungs had been healed of their punctures, he’d sworn to himself to never ask about the vampire’s moods again.

They had not been in Russia since before the Bolshevik Revolution, and Dracula spent their entire stay muttering about Catherine the Great and Alexander the First and heirs of the Roman Republic while Renfield scrambled to find passage far away from the fighting and whatever had happened in Poland to put his master so brutally out of sorts.

They’d ended up in India, where at least the British-occupied country meant that Renfield could speak one of the languages and blend in, even if he did occasionally get spit upon by those whose feelings about being the jewel of the English crown were that they’d rather not be.

News came at a delay and sometimes lacking in details, but it arrived eventually, bringing fresh horrors with every utterance.

And then had come the morning when Renfield had been awoken by his returning master pouncing on him and snarling that they were going to Japan immediately.

They couldn’t get as close as Dracula wanted in his sudden need to see. The radiation was unknown enough that even the vampire had to admit to having no idea if he could heal himself or his familiar from its effects.

But they got close enough to see the fallout.

The carnage.

The survivors.

They found their way back to Europe eventually. Back to elite parties and old homes of gothic architecture and innocent young things for the count to feed upon.

But Dracula was never quite the same after that.

Renfield had eventually realized what his master had seen in Warsaw, what he had learned about the Nazis and their ‘final solution’ for anyone deemed undesirable.

And he suspected that for the first time in centuries, Dracula had felt something for the humans he generally regarded purely as food.

And feeling anything had been more than he could endure.

So first he’d run. Until an atomic blast had proved that the world had changed into something uglier than even his fangs could render. And then he’d retreated.

Pure survival. Pure appetite.

So he never needed to feel for them again.

But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? Another side to Dracula’s decades of retreating. Of lashing out the second Renfield raised his voice. Of holding the familiar close – generally with claws gouged into his flesh. Of creating a world filled with the souls of any who’d come close and had the audacity to leave him with their deaths.

Century after century. How long had it been since he’d found a companion who’d walked beside him for decades at a time? He’d probably been less particular at the beginning, but loss had made him cruel. Violent.

Pushing them away before they could be the ones to leave him.

Renfield probably wasn’t anyone special in the sea of companions and slaves who’d gone before him.

But he was the one who’d been at Dracula’s side amidst a changing world. In a time when war had become a thing of machines – planes and tanks and rapidly firing guns. In a time of radiation and computers and increased security and exploding populations.

In a time when it had become harder to hide, and easier to cling to the past, and easier to dwell on the sins of those who’d left him than to look ahead.

And Dracula had so much hurt to bury himself inside.

How many lifetimes… how often had he thought he’d found a forever companion… only for them to fail to meet his impossible standards?

Renfield wasn’t even close to what Dracula wanted.

He was just… the consolation prize when the vampire gave up seeking perfection.

The one who was still here.

The one who came back.

No matter how many times he’d been pushed away.

“What time is it?” he asked, looking around the bathroom as if expecting a clock to spring into existence. “You must be exhausted, Master. Is there time for us to get home?”

“If you wouldn’t keep delaying us…” Dracula rumbled, but it didn’t sound as if his heart was in it.

Renfield fell into the role anyway. “I know, Master. I’m sorry I’ve forced you to go to so much trouble for me. Are you hungry still? I can break into a neighbor’s house before we go if you’d like.”

“No. I’m… sated.”

Or hungry for something blood couldn’t provide.

Renfield put a hand on the vampire’s arm and steered him out of the room. “Go, Master. I’ll cover our tracks and meet you outside.”

Dracula’s eyes roved up to his face, cautious and searching. Again, Renfield felt the powerful mind nudge against his own.

And once again, he blocked access.

“Please, Master,” he said softly. “I’ll protect us. And then I’ll be with you again.” He smiled, soft and reassuring. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Warily, the vampire stepped back. Watched him. Studied him. Then vanished in a rush of mist.

Covering their tracks was dealt with in the fastest way possible – gasoline. Oh, the questions of arson, and how the body had been drained of blood (if the strangulation marks and knife wounds weren’t still obvious), and what were the meaning of any prints recovered were sure to draw local speculation. But it was the best that could be done on short notice.

Renfield broke all the windows to provide ample oxygen before he dropped a lighter and hastened out the door. A pause to wipe the fingerprints off the doorknob, and his first hunt in decades was finally over.

Dracula stood tense and silent at the road’s edge, his shoulders dropping as Renfield approached him. He vanished into a flight of bats before Renfield could reach his side, leaving the familiar to weave his way across dark lawns until he found the highway where Dracula was waiting beside an idling car.

Renfield didn’t ask what had happened to the driver as he slid behind the wheel, the vampire a withdrawn shadow beside him.

“You’ll have to tell me the way,” Renfield said after they’d put a few miles between themselves and the growing blaze.

“I could show you if you weren’t being so obstinate,” Dracula muttered.

Renfield kept his eyes focused steadily ahead. “Master… I think we’ve spent too much time inside each other’s heads lately.”

“Since when do you get a choice, Servant?”

Renfield gnawed absently at his lip. He’d need to stop for an energy boost soon. Too many deaths too close together combined with too much emotional upheaval and no food were taking a definite toll. “I think,” he said at last very slowly, “that you don’t really want to be in my mind right now.”

“Oh? You presume to know my feelings?”

“I know you, Master. I’ve survived by knowing your feelings.”

“You’re abysmal at it most of the time.”

“I know. And now I understand why.”

“Do share.”

Renfield pulled the car into the lot of an all-night superstore. Dracula trailed him down the aisle as Renfield made his way to the pet department. “I’ve always known you were old,” he began thoughtfully. “And not human. But it’s more than that. You’re ancient. You have so much inside you. Memories of things I’d never be able to imagine. Times before… all of this.” He waved a hand at the nearly empty store and its array of disposable bounty which would have been unimaginable in bygone eras. With a quick glance around that no employees were near, he snagged a net and scooped a goldfish into his hand. He watched it squirm and thrash helplessly, leaving splatters of water and fishy slime over his skin. “No wonder we all look like ants to you. It's a wonder you can speak to any of us at all.” He flipped the fish into his mouth and gulped it down without chewing.

The power came in a swifter burst than the tiny lives of ants and flies ever gave him. A larger life – one with blood in it.

He leaned against the tank, panting hoarsely at the waves of vampiric energy coursing through his veins.

The hand which stroked possessively over his hip, the foot that nudged his ankles further apart, were not unexpected.

“When did I last have you bent over like this?” Dracula mused in his ear, his words reverberating against Renfield’s eardrum and sending cascades of their own through his body to further inflame his heated blood.

“Do we have time before sunrise?” Renfield gasped, arching his back with a moan as Dracula’s fingers massaged his inner thigh.

“Drive fast,” his master replied and sunk his teeth into the back of his neck like a feral tomcat pinning a female down before forcing his barb inside her.

And Dracula was hardly gentle as he rammed Renfield up against the wall of fish tanks, occasionally shoving Renfield’s head into the goldfish-infested water just for the pleasure of hearing him gurgle. He took without remorse, ignoring every gasp and whine as he relearned the body so long separated from his control.

And Renfield… reveled in it. In the blood trickling down his legs and the claws hooked into his thighs. In the relentless pace and rhythmic chant of “Mine… mine… mine…” which fell from his master’s lips.

Dracula needed this. Needed proof that he was still the superior. Proof that Renfield wasn’t going anywhere… even if Dracula had to hamstring him to keep him from running ever again. Proof that all was right with the world.

Renfield knew, even as he kept his thoughts shielded. Even as he refrained from trying to read the lustful and the desperate thoughts clawing at his mind’s door. Even as he knew that this couldn’t last for the forever Dracula so desperately desired.

The employees who appeared with intent to stop them wandered away in a daze, not saying a word about the mess the pair left against the fish display (and over a heap of dog food bags, and a tall cat tree which proved structurally unstable for what Dracula tried). They said nothing as Renfield helped himself to another goldfish and a sandwich and only waved vaguely as vampire and familiar ambled out without paying.

Renfield wondered how the security camera footage of that escapade would be explained. If the cameras even picked up Dracula’s presence. Hard to know with modern technology…

He drove fast, racing the sun over the long miles until the roads turned to dirt, and the cabin at last came in sight.

The tree cover shielded the vampire as Renfield opened the cabin door and the bats fled into the dark interior.

Dracula showed every sign of exhaustion, but he remained awake as the sun rose beyond their darkened home. He followed Renfield as the familiar changed his clothes and filled up the washing machine. As Renfield searched through the dusty kitchen cabinets for jars for caging bugs and jotted down notes to himself to order blood bags and false plates for the car. As Renfield went about their once-normal life as if decades of uncertainty and separation weren’t hanging between them. As if they still weren’t speaking of what Renfield had seen.

“I’ll have to hunt again soon,” Dracula broke through the silence abruptly. “Since you couldn’t manage a simple harvesting job.”

Renfield nodded absently. “We’ll need to move soon anyway. If you want to indulge in campers before we go. Do you have any preference? I don’t know if you looked at all the properties I bought…”

“I did. Any of them would be acceptable.”

Renfield paused in the midst of rinsing out the canning jars.

How had everything changed so effortlessly?

Two… three? days ago he’d have been on his knees, groveling in devoted terror for a second of praise. He’d have been overwhelmed to have his master watching him with such intensity.

Now… he couldn’t say he felt like himself. He wasn’t sure who that was when Dracula was stripped away. Maybe the groveling mess was him. Maybe the proactive hunter and planner he’d been two days before. Maybe this… this strange sea of calm and resolute certainty in which he was currently harbored.

At this instance, he knew who he was. He knew what he would always be.

And he knew what he had to do.

The coffin called, and Dracula could only stay away so long. Eventually he was compelled to retreat.

Renfield helped him inside, brushing his hair to neatness where it spilled over the upholstery. “Rest, Master,” he said softly.

A hand clamped around his wrist, digging deep enough to leave fresh claw marks. “You’ll be here at nightfall.”

The vampire tried to make it sound like an order.

Tried to make it sound like he wasn’t begging.

Renfield stooped low and kissed the pale knuckles. “I’m not leaving your side again, Master,” he promised, his eyes fastened steadily into the red-flecked orbs.

Half reassured, half suspicious, Dracula retreated his hand and allowed Renfield to close the lid.

The familiar sank to the ground, resting his head against the coffin and dozing lightly before instinct told him time enough had passed. He rose, collected a hatchet from the kitchen, and stepped outside.

He took his time – selecting the perfect tree, cutting the sapling into pieces, sharpening the stakes to narrow points.

Then he returned to the coffin.

He opened the lid softly, checking with delicate prodding of the deadly mind that Dracula was beyond mere slumber. He was in the hands of death, his soul away in the realm of shadows where his followers served in blind devotion.

Where he could not resist the danger in the waking world.

Renfield balanced the first stake over his master’s heart, hefted the blunt end of the hatchet as a hammer, and drove it home.

Dracula screamed, his body writhing and contorting around the unmovable point of wood. Still trapped in his deathlike state, he fought blindly and instinctively, unable to free himself without his consciousness present.

Renfield pinned his head still as he drove the second stake through his throat.

It was easier after that – the hands, the belly, the feet, the mouth, the lungs.

Once he’d run out of stakes, he fetched a knife and trimmed away the muscles of the powerful neck until the spine was exposed. His hands hugged around the skull, he gave it a sharp wrench, continuing to twist until the spine broke and the head pulled free. He cushioned it back into the coffin – sideways so that it wouldn’t reattach itself to the neck. An old mirror inserted between body and head – the best barrier he could manage at present.

He stroked the hair tenderly into place and pressed a kiss between the vampire’s eyes. “Sleep, Master,” he whispered. “I’ll watch over you while you do.”

Gently closing the coffin lid, he headed into the living room and opened the laptop, licking the remnants of vampire blood from his hands as he did.

It took little searching to find what he sought and send out the first tentative email.

One task completed, he switched to hunting through real estate listings, slowly narrowing down his search with each pass across the country.

By the time he’d finished bookmarking possible locations, a message alert was pinging.

---

He had to remove everything but the driver’s seat to fit the coffin inside the car.

Behind him, the cabin had been scrubbed so clean as to leave little sign it had ever been occupied. What bodies Dracula had brought there were dismembered and buried deep in the wilderness, unlikely to be found anytime soon.

Renfield climbed into the driver’s seat, carefully nesting several jars of beetles into the cup holders. He rested a hand briefly upon the coffin lid in quiet benediction. “We’re on our way, Master. Things will be alright soon. I’ll get you what you need.”

Certainty still hummed in his soul.

Patterns had been playing out again and again for too long. He’d tried once to break the cycle, but it would never be possible the way he’d done it.

And they couldn’t go on this way. Not with more souls than simply his in the balance.

And if they couldn’t fix things on their own, Renfield could only think of one source of help.

The car hummed to life, and Renfield set off down the road.

Chapter 24: Asylum

The shadowlands were always a place of unreality when Dracula found himself trapped there for extended stretches.

Time moved impossibly, his soul suspended between life and death with a pull both directions that left him with little certainty of the passage of seconds or years.

He knew his familiars attended him. Shadowy hands to satisfy his shadowy needs. Their souls sustaining his half-life for as long as he tarried here.

They were concerned what had brought him to their care so soon after his last extended stretch of near-death. They salivated with fury that any would dare to harm their beloved deity. Who had done this monstrous act? Could they return as wraiths to enact the master’s revenge?

As before, Dracula gave them no answer.

He couldn’t be certain of what had happened.

And he shied from the most likely truth.

So he basked in their care and amused himself with the fragments of his pets and lovers.

The vampire brides were exactly as he desired them now, all their obstinance and complaining stripped away. Just perfect playthings for him to sate himself upon again and again.

The familiars prostrated themselves before him in perfect servility. Each one waiting in eternal anticipation to leap to his command the second he uttered a desire.

Slaves and lovers who could be used or discarded, enjoyed or maimed. It would make no difference in what remained of their souls.

Perfect loyalty. Perfect submission. Perfect devotion.

God, he despised the lot of them.

He had Teddy Lobo tortured for his pleasure as if all this had been his fault. He thought about dragging some of the unsworn out of the pit to see if any resistance lingered in their souls.

But he didn’t.

If he’d truly won, those obstinate wills sucked dry with nothing remaining but him…

What would be left to amuse him if he ever truly conquered the world?

He dreamed of past glories and future triumphs, building castles of blood and bones which turned to brittle glass and crumbled to sand.

Endless deserts that he walked alone.

Eternally alone.

No. No, they’d always been someone beside him. The devoted. The ones sworn in word and blood.

So many thousands who’d worshipped him through the centuries.

And all of them were… nothing.

There was a pedestal somewhere in the shadows. One he’d built of dreams and wishes. One on which dwelt the shadow of the perfect companion.

One whose form he could never quite decipher.

He’d tried a thousand times to mold his pets and lovers into that perfect form. But the dream always twisted out of reach, and the human never fit exactly into the mold no matter how he much beat and pounded.

No matter how much he hoped.

Every time… they weren’t enough.

No one would ever be enough.

---

The clarity of the shadow world slipped away gradually, mist and darkness giving way to the senses of life.

Dampness. A scent of earth and coffin wood. Distant voices he couldn’t decipher. Sometimes raised, sometimes low and steady.

He’d drop back to the shadowlands, then rise a little further out of the mist.

Away from death. Back to life.

But life was a body inflamed with stabbing pain. With a mouth gasping open like a newborn bird to beg sustenance. Empty veins crying to be filled.

Blood! Blood was life and strength, and he was starved of it.

He hung in a world of shadows, only sometimes aware of the tube pressed to his mouth to trickle a little blood into his gaping mouth. Of the low voice murmuring quiet reassurance over him day after day as the limbo of darkness and death still held him in its grasp.

He stared up at the polished wood for hours on end, longing for sleep to reclaim him for its blessed hours of peaceful death, his weakened body too limited on sustenance to do more than concentrate upon healing.

How very long it took before his muscles knit the last wound back together and he could direct energy towards trying to move.

Nights passed of rattling at the coffin lid. Struggling and straining to find energy enough to simply sit up and push.

And always beyond the coffin prison, he could hear the steady and reassuring voice. Telling him he’d feel better soon. Patience. Everything was going to be just fine.

He hated how reassuring the voice made him feel each time he sank back into sleep.

---

He awoke with the night, feeling strong enough at last to shove open the lid and sit up with a moan as a wave of dizziness swamped his mind. Minutes passed before he felt certain enough to swing his legs over the side of the coffin and… nearly collapse to the ground.

He clutched the coffin edge in both hands, swaying in his bent over position and struggling to ascertain up from down. Eventually the dizziness passed away, and he straightened warily.

His coffin sat in the center of an empty warehouse. Ringed around it were the comforts of home – the antique furniture he favored, a bookshelf stuffed with aged volumes, even a gramophone stacked with recordings of the past.

Everything to satisfy his desires in a lair.

Except this was hardly the fine mansions he generally demanded.

And a certain familiar wasn’t currently bleeding under his claws.

Where was the miscreant?

He sniffed, drinking in the damp air.

Water damage and mold. Rodents and poison bait. Dust, dirt, and… human!

His head swiveled toward the scent, pointing with hound-like certainty towards a door at the far end.

Human. More than one. One he knew as well as he knew himself.

Or thought he’d known.

And another. A victim hopefully. Someone Renfield intended to pass over as a proper meal.

He closed his eyes and reached out for the bond, sought that pulsing heartbeat he could hear anywhere…

…and found a double beat resounding against his soul.

His eyes shot open, startled enough to lose his grip.

A mistake, surely. Some echo of the past hammering against his present confusions.

He reached out again, tried to sink his talons into Renfield’s chain and draw him forth…

…but the doubling of bonds, of pulses, of connections, once more caused him to falter and lose his grasp.

Renfield came anyway.

“Hello, Master,” he said pleasantly as he crossed through the door. “It’s nice to see you’re feeling well enough to move about.”

Dracula roared and lunged with all the strength and speed he could muster. It wouldn’t take much. Just let him get his claws around that puny human throat…

…and his lunge was brought up short as a wall of blue flames erupted into being before him.

He fell back, recoiling from the warning crackle of protection magic.

His eyes flicked to the ground, fastening upon the massive ring of salt or dust surrounding his comfortable little living area.

A prison.

“It’s alright, Master,” Renfield reassured him. “We’ve been working on it for a long time. It won’t hurt you or keep you suspended. It just limits where you can go.”

“We?” Dracula demanded.

The familiar stepped to the side and gestured behind him as a second figure walked through the door.

He was a man about sixty, peering at the world through thick glasses with a nervous smile on his lips.

He was not… unfamiliar.

Actually… if the bond Dracula felt between them was any indication… he was quite familiar.

Dracula threw himself at the barrier with a roar of outrage. “How dare you?!” he snarled. “You had no right-”

Renfield stood his ground. “You’ve lured many to your service on some very dubious consent. Seemed fair for once to make a familiar without you being an active participant.”

“How?” Dracula demanded. “How could you?”

“You were more than willing to drink his blood when I offered it to you,” Renfield replied steadily. “He went through the ritual, made all the necessary swearing…”

“Ate a bug,” the other man confirmed with a shudder. His eyes flicked to Renfield. “I don’t know how you pop them down like candy.”

“Practice,” Renfield replied with a smile. “I love that that’s the part that bothered you. Not drinking vampire blood.”

“Well, I’d already done that once before.” Another grimace. “Just as cold and slimy the second time.”

Dracula rumbled low in his throat.

The not-stranger turned to him with a nervous smile. “Hi. We’ve never been properly introduced, have we? Even if you did tear my throat out the last time. I’m Mark.” He stuck out his hand, then thought better of it and wiped it awkwardly against his pants.

“I know who you are,” the vampire hissed, pacing tight circles at the edge of his barrier. “You stole Renfield from me.”

“That’s rather possessive talk, isn’t it? Robert is his own person, Mast… Oh, that just slips out, doesn’t it?” He made a face. “I don’t think I’m at all comfortable with the servile language. Is it really necessary?”

“I think it comes with the bond,” Renfield replied apologetically. “You do belong to him now. More than you did already.”

Dracula stopped and glared deeply into his new and unwanted familiar’s eyes. “Exactly, Servant. You’re mine. Your mind and soul are mine to command. You will obey no will but my own. Now… break this spell ring.”

Mark stared back at him for several long seconds, then blinked, shook himself, and turned back to Renfield. “I’d say the magic fairy ring of yours is working. I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do.”

“It doesn’t work like that anyway,” Renfield said. “He might be able to hypnotize regular people, but you’re more than human now. He could never make me do anything. Not that way at least.”

“Which explains why you’ve yet again turned traitor,” Dracula hissed.

Renfield shook his head. “I haven’t, Master. I’m doing exactly what you created me to do.”

“Which is?”

“Taking care of you. Even if you won’t admit you need it.”

Dracula drew himself to his full and haughty height. “Explain, Servant.”

“He really is terribly full of himself, isn’t he?” Mark whispered.

Dracula scowled at the gray-haired man.

He’d been killing off all those who’d drunk his blood in New Orleans as he’d made his way across the country. He’d heard their heartbeats in his mind, siren songs of victims already marked by his touch. Those who’d died at his hand and been brought unnaturally back to life.

It went against laws of nature and against his liking to have a handful in the world possessing a bit of himself without being fully his.

So he’d picked them off steadily, leaving a few for Renfield to prove his loyalty upon.

This one… this Mark… he’d been saving him.

The leader of the little enclave who’d stolen Renfield. The one who believed in talking about feelings and bettering oneself and all that nonsense which had poisoned his familiar’s mind.

The one who’d had sense enough to kneel upon seeing a vampire in full power.

He’d imagined this a little – making a familiar out of him. Just to see how long it would take that idealist to become a soulless killer.

This was not how he’d imagined the scenario playing out.

“I saw it in your mind, Master,” Renfield began. “Thousands of lifetimes. Always searching. Always trying to make a new companion to be with you. And when they don’t… you kill them. Or leave them to die. And say it’s their fault. For abandoning you.”

“They do abandon me! I give them the gift of immortality, of power, and they squander it!”

“I know that’s how it feels. I know you’re scared.” Renfield stepped across the barrier.

“I fear nothing!” Dracula lunged, sinking his claws through fabric and flesh as he pinned his familiar against the suddenly solid barrier. “Do you presume to know my feelings, Slave?! Think you can divine a fraction of what I’m capable of experiencing?! I’ve known more than your puny lifeline will ever experience. Once you’re dead and buried and even your molecules have scattered into so many pieces that no trace of you remains, I’ll still be here!”

“I know,” Renfield said quietly, his teeth gritted against the claws threatening to puncture his lungs. “That’s what scares you, isn’t it?”

Dracula snarled and lashed his claws across that too-patient, too serene face.

“Hey! Maybe we should all settle down and ease off on the blood splatters!” Mark protested from the other side of the barrier. “Should I…”

“Stay there!” Renfield called before he was struck again. “It’s fine!”

The words further enraged Dracula. He hurled the familiar across the circle, sending him careening into the coffin. He sank his claws into Renfield’s scalp, doubling him over the coffin as he flayed his back down to bone.

Traitor. Liar. Idiot. Traitor, traitor, TRAITOR!

The words flared hot and red in his mind. Jagged crimson lightning through the red mist before his eyes.

He’d teach him. He’d make him suffer. Crawl. Never let him go again…

He didn’t go.

The thought flickered through the mist, an unwelcome fly buzzing through his rage.

He swatted the thought away, but it returned.

He didn’t go. He’s still here. He keeps coming back.

He’ll always come back.

He froze, glaring doubtfully down at his handwork.

“You can hurt me if you need to,” Renfield gasped through clenched teeth. “I can take it. I won’t go. No matter what you do.”

Dracula dropped the body, recoiling in a fit of horror and uncertainty to pace at a distance while his familiar crumpled weakly to the floor and lay still.

“What are you getting out of this?” Dracula demanded, whirling abruptly to glare at the man on the other side of the barrier.

“Hopefully my friends’ souls,” the therapist replied, his eyes fastened on Renfield’s bleeding form.

“What?!”

Mark swallowed nervously, then stood tall and met Dracula’s gaze. “When I… when I came back the first time. From dying. I remembered things… Things no one else did. Shadows and fog and… people. People crying for help! Saying they were trapped. That they couldn’t find their way.” He wrapped his arms around his middle and shuddered. “I never stopped dreaming about them.

“And then Robert contacted me. He… he told me he’d made a mistake in giving us your blood. That he’d bound us to you. And that you’d… you were killing everyone else from that night.”

“Did he tell you who it was who killed the most recent of your sad little group?”

“Yes. I know about Carol.” Mark’s eyes took on a distant and thoughtful expression. “I know I should be more freaked out about that. I should be going to the police or… I don’t know how to get rid of you. But… here I am instead.”

“So I see. Stealing my blood once more. Why? To escape those screams in the darkness?” Dracula pressed himself against the barrier, fangs bared. “That’s your future. You can’t keep me in here forever. Sooner or later, I’ll have you. I’ll make you pay for this. For eternity.”

Mark shuddered, his eyes huge and dilated behind his glasses. “So we have a lot of anger issues to work on, clearly.”

“Come closer and you’ll learn all about my anger.”

“Pass. I’ve seen what you do to Robert.”

“He shouldn’t have let you lead him astray.”

“He came to me. To find help for you.”

The vampire reared back, lips curled in a disgusted sneer. “Me? I was fine. We were just fine. Until you and your paltry humans got in his head!”

“Robert was miserable, and you know it,” Mark snapped. “Whatever you two used to have… and I don’t even begin to understand what a century of literally being inside another person’s head can do… it was broken. He told me about your killing sprees. How restless and reclusive you’d become. How you disemboweled him for suggesting life changes.”

“He’s my servant. He’s not meant to think.”

“He’s the closest you have to a conscience if I’m any judge,” Mark observed. “He keeps insisting you two had good times once. That you respected him.”

Dracula scoffed.

“I’d tell him to get out of a harmful relationship. I did tell him that. But do you know what he was like without you?”

“Helpless and weeping ceaselessly, no doubt.”

“No, he functioned. He was even happy.”

Dracula flinched, suppressing the action too late.

“You don’t like to think about that, do you?” Mark observed. “That you might not be essential to his ability to be happy and functioning.”

Dracula ground his teeth and turned away, refusing to entertain that nonsense with an answer.

“He’s his own person,” Mark continued. “Just like all the others you’ve…” He hesitated, speaking the last word with open distaste. “…enslaved.”

“You’re mine as well, Slave,” Dracula snarled over his shoulder. “And you’ll know the full displeasure of your master soon.”

Mark’s voice continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Robert could live without you. But it wasn’t the life he wanted. He wrote to me for a while after he left. When he spent all those years searching for a life apart from you. And he did find lives. But ultimately, I think you were what he was waiting for.”

“He picked an odd way to show it. Abandoning my service. Failing to return once he knew I was back.”

“He was waiting to see if you’d come for him just as much as you were waiting for him,” the therapist said flatly.

Dracula winced, his eyes fixed on the bloody figure crumpled at his feet.

“Love works both ways, you know. How many years has he proved to you that he’ll always be there? Always come back no matter what you do? Maybe this time he needed to know that you’d do the same.”

“It is not for the slave to set the terms!” Dracula snarled.

“Is that really what you want him to be?”

“Of course! He was a pathetic cretin when he came to me, and he’s never been anything else. Just a pawn to be manipulated as I wish.”

“Pawns get sacrificed, don’t they? Would you sacrifice him?”

“Of course!”

“Under what circumstances?”

Dracula stared down at the bleeding man, feeling the helpless tension radiating down his spine. “I don’t have to answer any of your questions!”

“Do you know what I think?”

“I have no interest in your thoughts.”

“I think,” Mark went on steadily, “that there’s nothing that would make you abandon him. That you’ve tried, and you can’t imagine life away from him anymore than he can from you. It’s not healthy for either of you, but considering your circumstances, it’s understandable.”

“Circumstances?” Dracula scowled as he crouched down and wriggled a claw into one of Renfield’s wounds to see if he could make him awaken with a proper scream. Something to drown out the incessant Mark.

And the voices in his own mind.

“You fear abandonment.”

The vampire charged the barrier and slammed his full weight against it. “I fear nothing!”

Mark didn’t move. His arms were crossed, his expression silent and unimpressed. “I’ve met a lot of guys like you.”

“There is no one like me!”

“You’d be surprised. The world’s full of guys who think they’re immortal, and that their actions will never have consequences, and that hurt everyone around them by denying their feelings. Sound familiar?”

“You know nothing about me.”

“You’re probably right. The last time we talked I watched you murder twenty people. This time…” Mark gestured at Renfield’s unconscious body. “But I feel like I’m sensing a pattern.”

“Renfield gets what he deserves. If you don’t think driving a stake through my heart doesn’t deserve retribution…”

“I don’t think you’re actually bothered by that.”

“Oh really?” Dracula scoffed. “And what is it that actually bothers me?”

“That he survived without you. Maybe not well. Maybe not happily. But despite everything you did to make him literally unable to be without you, you still managed to make him unhappy enough to risk it.”

The vampire stormed away, pacing the helpless circumference of the circle and throwing himself against the barrier at random for any hint of weakness.

He couldn’t escape Mark’s voice. “I don’t know how it started for you. I don’t know how many you lost before you became so afraid of being alone that you started holding others to you with violence. And it just made them run faster, didn’t it? And then you found Robert who was so battered already that he’d put up with any pain you put him through if it meant you’d let him stay with you. But once he finally started waking up to what kind of a mess you’d made of him and trying to be his own person, you had to hurt him. Had to punish back into a helpless state where you were all that mattered to him again.” Mark sighed. “I’ve met abusers who mess with their victims minds, but never one so literally as you.”

“Enough! Who are you that I should listen to you?”

“Me? Nobody.” Mark pushed his glasses against his nose. “Just an old man who is hoping to do a little good.”

Dracula scoffed. “You call yourself old?”

“I do, yes. Maybe older than you in a human way. You’ve never had to sit in a hospital, waiting to hear if the results are cancerous or not. You’ve never had to make out a will and wonder if you’ve done anything worthwhile with the short time you’ve had.” Mark stared at the ground. “But you do know what it feels like to lose people. Would you like to talk about that?”

“I don’t lose anyone! They’re still mine. All their souls are mine forever. Just like yours.”

“I know. But… are you happy with them as they are now?”

Dracula didn’t answer.

“You seem desperate to get away from the afterlife and back to Robert. He says there isn’t any personality left in the souls you’re keeping locked up. Does it really make you feel better? Keeping them in a state where they can’t run? When you know they would if they could?”

“They belong to me.”

“Why is it so important to own people?”

Dracula turned his back on the therapist as he crouched down and gave Renfield a nudge. And a harder nudge.

With a sigh, he tore into his wrist and allowed his blood to drip over the inert form.

Renfield came awake, coughing and shaking. He tucked his knees beneath his chin, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs as he huddled in a shivering bundle upon the floor.

Dracula pretended not to watch him. “You’re pathetic,” he muttered.

“Mark says you use insults to divorce yourselves from your feelings.”

“Mark is complete idiot who-” Dracula broke off and looked away.

Renfield lay silent for a time. “I didn’t betray you,” he said quietly. “Not this time.”

“You stabbed me in my sleep!”

“Would you have listened if I suggested therapy?”

“I’d have carved your tongue out and made you eat it.”

“See?”

The vampire stormed away, then back again, loathing the two sets of eyes staring intently at him. “So this is your bright plan, Servant? Keep me shut away? Will you charge admission and bring in the spectators? The mighty Count Dracula! Reduced to lapping scraps tossed to him by his pathetic slaves! Bring me a hamstrung body if I’m good?”

“We’re not killing anyone,” Mark announced sharply. “I only agreed to this if nobody dies. We’re paying people to donate blood.”

“How cute. You think your soul can remain pure after you’ve already sworn it to me.”

“Mark only agreed to take your blood because I knew this would take longer than a human lifespan,” Renfield said, sitting up slowly with one hand to his head.

Dracula shoved him over with one foot and ground his toes against the familiar’s windpipe. “What precisely is this?”

Renfield lay passive beneath him, his eyes trained upward, not making any attempt to speak or thrash until Dracula eased off the pressure. “I know you feel like you’ve been abandoned by everyone who came before me,” he began then spoke quickly before Dracula could resume strangling him. “People die, Master! People want their own lives! That doesn’t mean they stop loving you.”

“You’ve grown too bold, Servant.”

“You need help, Master! Therapy helped me. It made me finally realize what a mess we’d been living in. I never wanted to leave you. I just…”

“Just what?” Dracula hissed, leaning close.

“I missed you,” Renfield whimpered. “The way it used to be between us. And you must have too. Wasn’t that what you were trying to recreated all those months in the cabin?” He reached up a trembling hand to brush through the vampire’s hair. “But you can’t just reset my mind. I’ve finally grown up enough to recognize who I am when I’m not under someone else’s control. I’m finally making actual choices instead of just doing what’ll cause me the least pain. Maybe you’ll hate me for this. Maybe you’ll kill both of us. Go on for centuries collecting souls and trying to find something that doesn’t exist. But, Master… that hasn’t worked. You’ve been unhappy for a long time. Couldn’t we try to help you?”

Dracula leaned into the touch. His eyes sank closed, savoring the sensation of warmth. Of life. Love.

He pulled away.

“I need nothing from you. You’re nothing. Just a mewling cur I’ve tolerated all these years. Get out of my sight.”

Renfield rose slowly. There was sadness in his eyes. But no hurt. No despair. “I’m not leaving you. Not while you’re hurt. I’ll be here. As long as it takes.” He stepped out of the circle.

Mark watched him, shifting awkwardly in place. “So that was an… interesting first day. Can’t say we made any spectacular breakthroughs. But we’re all still breathing… er… two of us are. Do you breathe?”

Dracula hissed at him.

“Breathing is a sometimes activity. Got it. You’re… ah… going to be an interesting patient.”

“I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born and then drag your soul into the depths and eviscerate it for eternity.”

“And that’s why I’m so glad we put this dust ring down with super glue. I’ll be checking it every few hours from now on. Whenever the nightmares wake me up.” Mark smiled a look somewhere between cheerfulness and outright panic. “I’ll see you for our first proper session. Mas… Mr. Dracula, have a good night.” He fled the warehouse.

Dracula glared across the ring at Renfield. “Aren’t you fleeing with your tail between your legs too?”

Renfield merely collected a folding chair and dragged it back to the barrier. “I told you,” he said as he sat down, “I’m not leaving you again.”

“You’re a fool. What do you think will happen? That talking about my feelings will make me see the light? Treat humanity with benevolent kindness? Beg their forgiveness for every wrong I’ve done?”

Renfield studied him. “Would that make you happy?”

The vampire scoffed and turned away.

“You’ve been unhappy a long time. And you take it out on me. I’ve tried leaving you. You’ve tried leaving me. Destroying me. I’ve tried feeding you only the people I think deserve to be killed. You’ve tried taking my memories. But it doesn’t work. You can’t stop me from changing. You’ve changed too. And… I don’t think you like who you’ve changed into.”

“You don’t get to decide who I am.”

“I know. But you’ve decided who I am for a long time. I can’t let that happen anymore. I’ve spent a long time trying to find myself away from you. And I can’t. Maybe I never will. And right now… you need me.”

Dracula scoffed.

“You do! You can beat me and insult me and deny me all you’d like, but you need someone you know will come back. You can feel like everyone else abandoned you, you can say I’m not good enough to fill their roles, but I’m the one who’s still here. Who WILL still be here until you don’t need me anymore.”

“And when will that be?” Dracula sneered.

“When you stop being afraid of being alone.”

Dracula hissed and threw himself at the barrier. “Insolence! When I get my claws on you…”

Renfield rose and stepped across the line.

Dracula fell back, staring at the familiar from a suspicious distance.

“I’m here, Master. I’m going to keep being here.” Renfield took a step closer and held out a hand. “You’re not alone. You’re not abandoned. Not by me. Not by half of those you’re blaming for leaving you.”

Dracula sank his claws into his familiar’s forearm and dragged him closer. “You’re wrong about me,” he hissed into the familiar’s ear. “I fear nothing. I need no one.”

Renfield bared his throat as Dracula’s tongue laved the length of his neck, ending with fangs pricking his cheek. “If you do need someone,” he panted, “I’m here.”

“Shut up,” Dracula rumbled as he hooked a leg behind Renfield’s knees and forced him to the ground, “and take your clothes off.”

---

Mark sighed as he returned several hours later to find two naked and bloodied men on the floor of the warehouse. “There is nothing healthy about this dynamic.”

“There won’t be anything sanitary about it either unless you find a way to rig up a shower,” Dracula growled back. He sat up, using Renfield as a backrest. The familiar mumbled wearily in his sleep and snuggled tighter against him.

“We’ll figure something out,” Mark agreed. He settled in the folding chair and poised a pen over a notebook. “Count Dracula. Session one. Let’s begin.”

Notes:

We end as we began. But hopefully with a less sadistic doctor providing assistance.

This ending is brought to you by... I just couldn't kill Mark again. I loved Brandon Scott Jones in The Good Place. Come to think of it, we never found out how John died... And that angel did believe Jason when he said a dracula with a bazooka chased him out of the accounting office... Just saying...

You can imagine for yourself whether Dracula takes to therapy and manages any breakthroughs or slaughters poor Mark again and heads off into the world with a willing or unwilling familiar at his side. I think there's enough hints that he has the potential to make a few life changes. Will they last? He has a lot of centuries to progress or regress. I'm sure this won't be the last time Renfield is begging him for change. But I don't think he'll be able to completely deny how much he needs his familiar again.

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I hadn't planned to write about Renfield story, but it ended up happening. Survivor's Guilt is a new film and book mashup in which both Renfield and Jonathan Harker find themselves in Transylvania and the fallout of meeting with a very possessive count.

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Since some of the readers of this followed me over from my other works, I'd like to suggest some other Renfield stories if you're interested.
Not a Dog at All by staywiththething - Another post movie fic with Renfield bringing Dracula back to life himself. It's excellent and brutal and worth the read.
Bloodhounds by eyemeohmy - The fic that asks the question - what if Dracula got a dog? I love it for the extended look at the private life of vampire and familiar.
Exquisite Agony and Lamb by Coileddragon - The writer of multiple unapologetic filthy gore porn works. Lamb's got all the pathetic sweetness of this relationship that I adore. Agony... may have awoken something in me.
Orice by Ollie_Mor - An ongoing book canon fic in which a very woke Jonathan Harker copes with having been molested in Transylvania during a time period where to admit such a thing is a crime. I adore Harker and Renfield's interactions in this.

There are many other great fics out there, and I look forward to reading more now that I have more time! Until NaNo starts next month at least.