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see-arcane · 1 year ago

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Kiss Him No More

“Unclean, unclean! I must touch him or kiss him no more. Oh, that it should be that it is I who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may have most cause to fear.”

In which the connection between a sea-bound vampire, his new wine-press, and her husband is put to intriguing use.

Ao3 link here

He was on the water when it happened.

His hold on the woman was already in place, but hardly of use in that hellish period between Piccadilly and the ship. Too much to think of while preparing his final box, hardly a word worth eavesdropping on, and a general miasma of dull irritation blotting out his attention in-between. The only respite came when he allowed himself a dip into the day’s torpor to keep himself from turning ragged enough to lash out at the chattel. One of his sweeter dreams involved a future at the far end of this improvised game of limp-and-lure in which he made his return to fair England and treated himself to twisting off a few heads he’d so graciously allowed to stay on their owners’ shoulders despite their rudeness.

The charming fellow at the port for one. Perhaps the man tending the wolves for another. The latter was, if nothing else, a proper admirer of his beloved creatures. He might die quicker. Then the wolves could head to his seaside friend’s abode and eat the man down to the bone. Starting with his tongue. It was one cozy thought of many he nursed as he tried to smooth down his own hackles over this most insulting snag to an otherwise pristine entry to the country. Yes, he would return. Yes, he would untangle the snarls made of his precious tapestry. He knew, he knew.

Still, mortification burned in his chest like a coal.

Years of planning smashed like glass by idiot children. It enraged and embarrassed in the same blow. Would he have been so blindsided a century ago? Two? Three? He would swear he felt the ghosts of every foe jeering at him from the grave.

How low he has fallen! How lax he is! He would not notice the laurels he squats on have been swapped for wild rose until there was a holy rash on his backside!

Such would surely be his reception once he made it back to the castle. Oh, but his harpy loves would laugh until their crystal cackling turned hoarse. They would all have their penance to pay once he got home.

It was their fault, damn them. He had grown idle? He had let his guard down? He, who had spent an ordinary man’s lifetime arranging everything to exactness for England’s sake, was the lazy one when the most they could be bothered with was grudgingly consenting to learn the tongue? No. No, no, no. If anyone was to receive a lion’s share, pardon, a lioness’ share of guilt for this mess, it had to be the three pampered cats who had whined and paced and kicked up such a maddening fuss about having to be patient for two whole months to get their promised toy, only to let him vanish right out from under their claws.

No doubt they would have some excuse. They would huff and sniff and laugh. We searched so diligently for a whole half a night! Honest! He was just too fast for us!

He would hear it all patiently just prior to wringing them out like yowling dishrags.

“He was fast,” he murmured to himself in the box. The torpor was thinning now as sunset passed over the ship. Still a corpse, but one who might move. Just as he had once upon a time, turning his head for a parting smile at his good young friend with the spade in hand, complete with a little tickle of paralysis through the eyes. A gesture that had earned him his own farewell in the form of the scar still resting on his brow. A heavy strike for one with such depleted veins. It had been easy to laugh off then; blood for blood. His new playmates would surely have cheered the boy had they caught him.

Instead, Jonathan Harker had fled the castle and cut through the Carpathians like a knife to make it back to his England. To his woman. To a blade that would have seemed absurd to picture in his hand only a season ago, but had proven to fit him like another limb. Fast. So fast. So…

The memory flashed in him again, raw as the burn on the woman’s head.

The stalwart shepherd dogs’ hands weighty with the Cross. Jonathan’s strangling the kukri knife. How a single night had changed him! The dark locks gone silver-white, the eyes bright as melting coins. He had flown with his steel, a rush of speed and strength that would have unsewn a mortal man into a bleeding pile with one strike. Indeed, he had almost been that fool. Surprise and, yes, fine, he admitted it, laxness had him standing still and stupid as a doe not recognizing a hunter’s rifle. But he had moved at the last, losing a great cascade of wealth from his purse. Better that than his entrails.

Even when he was out the window and shouting his bile up at their whole lot, there had been no pause for the blazing Thing that was now Jonathan Harker. That Thing having taken advantage of the diatribe to slither out the broken pane and creep down the house’s side, a spider coming to share a helping of venom from its eager fang. Realization had struck in a cold and nearly dizzying blow as he watched the descent.

Where the solicitor’s fellows might mean to corral or corner, Jonathan Harker fully intended to kill him in broad daylight. Witnesses or no. This, when he could have no clue as to how his corpse would disintegrate to its rightful state. Jonathan could only think that he would look like a madman slaughtering a nobleman in a crowded street. And he did not care.

All this just for the woman.

The epiphany had struck like a strange boiling poison in his bowels. It did not cool even as he shot away, locked the gate at his back, and vanished into the crowd. Nor did it settle with the night, with the day after, or any of the hours to follow. The feeling was only ignored as he worked toward shipping himself back to his territory, dangling himself and the woman’s fate just enough so that she and the clever little cogs in her brain could turn and come to the obvious conclusion as if the daft old Count could surely never have thought to have his connection turned against him! He would leave the door open for her a good while before shutting her out. Let them scramble about on the Continent awhile until they thought they had a chance in the chase again. Follow the lame wolf, everyone, never mind his teeth.

He thought of Jonathan Harker’s teeth. Blunt and white and bared in a livid rictus of hate, hunt-maddened as those finest breeds born to cull the pests of farmers and rend the throats of bears. He tried to picture them as they should have been by now. Sharp as darning needles, the lips bloodstained, curled up by choice or command at the sight of him. A grin that should be waiting in the castle for him.

There was the boiling poison again. Its heat thawed the cold of him so wretchedly it might have liquefied him from the bones out. A poison that seared hotter with every thought of Jonathan Harker.

Jonathan Harker, who escaped.

Jonathan Harker, who hid away a full account of that summer stay and all the information worth gleaning out of his cordial host.

Jonathan Harker, who gave the vermin his name. His properties. The architecture of his entire endeavor, served on a silver plate, parsed out for swift consumption and destruction by the woman.

Jonathan Harker, whose company had, with bitterest irony, turned out to be the most pleasurable stretch of time he could recall out of the past six months. The Demeter had ended sloppily with the captain’s obstinate trick of the rosary, the ghost ship forced to crash. His first conquest on English soil, his supple Lucy, had annoyed almost more than it satisfied with those damned pet lovers circling her, all ended with she and her tomb now lost. Even the woman, his canny wine-press, had turned sour on his tongue.

He had at least seeded the expected despair. A crash of woe and a blow struck as first payment for the fools’ intrusion on his affairs. Plus a fine incentive to bring things to the necessary head in Transylvania. The bitch and her fellow dogs were duly kicked, now spurred to hunt him even as it enticed them back to his land of power. A game of keep-away put to the extreme. Come get me or I get her!

Supposing they did not put her down outright as they had his poor Lucy. But they would hold off, he knew, soft things that they were.

Even if they were otherwise, she still has him to make them reconsider. Or else deliver them into their own pits in the earth before they can think to scratch her with a stake.

He betrayed himself by grinning.

A man willing to skin a gentleman in the street for defiling his woman was also the same man to slaughter a friend who dared to raise a killing hand to her. Another happy hypothetical to mull over, though it too boiled. His grin faltered back to a sneer in the earthen dark.

Jonathan Harker, Jonathan Harker. What wouldn’t he do for his woman? More pressingly, what wouldn’t he do for his Master once she was reduced to his cudgel and collar? The notion brought a different warmth to him. A juvenile one that might have made him chuckle in better circumstances. Here he was again, an old man made abruptly young as Mr. Harker started strumming old desires awake.

But thoughts of those summer nights chafed as much as soothed now. All the delight was tainted with the haranguing of his future self: Now! Do it now! Don’t dally, don’t savor! Drink him as you take him! Let the women have their taste if you must, but finish it before he can slip into the wind!

All too late.

It was all he could do not to ram his fist against the dense wood of the lid. He was free to move now and it took true effort. Sunset had been and gone, the woman’s prying gone with it. She heard water. She felt his stillness. Through her eyes he could see them all: the shepherd dogs.

The old man he pictured with his skull bashed open, his scholarly acumen spilled like gruel upon a brick wall. The doctor he could see drunk dry and sent toddling back to the asylum, feasting through his patients like a plague. The little lordling would be ordered to wring the necks of all his dogs prior to opening a few dozen polished doors to his good friend Count De Ville. The American he would shoot full of holes before and after his turning, followed by sending him off to make arrangements on that further colonial shore.

And Jonathan Harker?

His dearest and most daring friend?

He would have a positive wonderland of activities to endure. His vocabulary would be whittled down to precisely three words in the years to come.

Mina! Master! Mercy!

The ship lurched to one side and shouldered him against the left of the box. He chewed on a curse and sent up a demand to the sky to settle its breeze down. Then, scenting that there were no crewmen among the cargo, he let himself leak out. Man to mist, mist to man. He stalked where there was space to stalk and climbed where there wasn’t, simply needing to move. This came with the needling memory of the zoo and its wildcats sulking and skulking behind their bars. Another curse was caught in his teeth. A third, a fourth. He almost struck out at a random crate when something struck him first:

A sudden flare of sensation from the woman.

Curiosity made him reach out before he’d even registered what the sensory shock came from. Surprise slapped into him when he found himself wearing the woman’s face as Jonathan’s fastened on it, lips sealed into each other as tears rolled. A familiar sight, a familiar taste. Nor was it so from borrowing her senses on previous occasions. He had known this and so much more of the young man back when his hair was dark as a chestnut.

The shock came from the feeling of a deft hand grazing the woman’s thigh. Fingertips skimmed inquisitively along the skin where the femoral artery pulsed and blood rushed in expectation toward—

“Jonathan.” Her head shook. “We can’t. We shouldn’t…shouldn’t…” The hand came away from her thigh and joined its brother in cupping her face. Jonathan’s gaze rested solely on her eyes, refusing the Wafer’s scar so much as a glance. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“How much of anything in this past week has been right for us? For you?” Here the choking throat bobbed. Brown eyes gone wet as glass. “I just—I want to do something for you. To give you all that can be given as we are.”

“As I am. You are not the one marked, unclean—,”

“No. You do not call yourself that. Please, never insult the woman I love with such a word again. Marked, yes, but never, ever unclean. Nor unworthy. Nor anything less than sublime.”

“That isn’t true, Jonathan.”

“Wilhelmina, it is. Whether you believe it or not.” Jonathan bowed forward until, gentle as a feather, his brow rested against the burn. “If you cannot, I shall simply know it twice as hard for us both.”

“Such is sweet to hear. But there’s more to consider. You know it.”

“So there is. And I care more for you than any other consideration or hypothetical element. You are here and real and whatever else may come into it is inconsequential as vapor. If you tell me you truly do not wish me to touch you, to give you what comforts I can beyond a held hand and our shared bed, then I will drop the matter. We shall be chaste until,” again the leap of the throat, “all is settled. But before we swear to abstinence, I want you to tell me, from your heart, that you wish it because you deem it a true desire and not merely another act of deprivation for—for its own sake.”

In the dark, a tongue clicked and tutted. A close call, Mr. Harker. Can’t let it slip whose eyes you pretend not to see on the other side of hers.

“Would you wish to engage in such intimacies were you in my position?” was Madam Wine-Press’ counter. “I have read it all. Everything you bore—,”

Here an outright cackle was stifled in a dirt-powdered sleeve.

Ha.

‘All.’ As if he had not thumbed through the diary entries himself before tossing the papers on the fire. Such wide gaps between so many dates, dear Jonathan. Whatever for?

“—everything you were prepared to risk rather than stay eternally in the presence of those Weird Sisters. How can I, being what I am, becoming worse, make you pantomime your way through any such act with something that may soon cease to be your wife?”

Ah, the melodrama of the martyr. A fine save, wine-press. No other cause to pause in the coital fumbling. None at all.

In answer, Jonathan pulled away an inch, still staring straight ahead. Love softened most of the look, but an edge of whetted steel hovered in it too. Seeing her and seeing past her. It was almost like watching a magic trick as the expressions of the gallant lover, the loyal knight, and the hunting dog all overlapped together with a radiation of purpose in every angle. All the while, the hand that had risen from her thigh began to descend.

It did not fall immediately, but walked. A steady trek down the cheek to the lips. From lip to throat, swiping past the tell-tale bite. Smoothing around the hill of the breast and its pointed cap. Along the bend of the waist, across the shelf of the hip. Home again on a thigh that was still hot under the nimble fingers. Perhaps warmer.

“Tell me to stop if you want me to stop. But only if it’s for your sake. Not mine. Not God’s. Not any hesitation born of what some intangible other might think.” The hand began to roam again. “I love you, Mina. Always.” The fingers crept. Slipped. Traced. “There is no force, no change, no decree on Earth or beyond it that will make me feel otherwise.” The entire hand was at work. Tirelessly. “If my words are not enough to prove it, if action is not enough, if my own nightmare left on paper has skewed the matter, I ask that you let me verify it in the flesh. If you will let me.”

Faster. Faster. Faster. A speeding cradle of muscle and bone rocking up, up, up, in, in, in—

“Will you let me?”

The answer was a single breathless vowel chased by a burst of damp heat, hands locked tight on Jonathan’s shoulders.

Out on the sea, in the dark, a second body shuddered and locked his teeth against a gasp. Later he would try to mock himself for the reaction. He wasn’t a stranger to the ‘Weird Sisters,’ as his Harkers called them, and their own play. They would all borrow each other’s climaxes given the opportunity. And yet this one had struck deeper.

In the present he tried to shake off the tremors still thrumming up and down his legs. Instead, he locked himself more fully into the woman’s senses. The heat of her, the breath, the tingling across her lap. Then, whispered back, woven with equal resignation, determination, and want:

“Will you let me?”

“Yes.”

And so the woman’s hand—his hand—made its own route along Jonathan. She was as deft as her husband. Though he flattered himself that his own experienced digits had worked the young man far more expertly. It had been necessary to wring it out of him in his less than enthused condition. Regardless, it was a pleasant return to better memories and a charming prelude to their trio’s unique and sprawling future together.

There was a satisfaction in seeing the young man come undone as the body usurped the mind, pleasure blasting out all the sentiment of love for one heady moment. Yet it returned within a blink. As did his lips upon hers. A sweeter heat flooded the woman this time. No tears, only the taste of each other, the feel of hands held or hands grasping, the heart twisting with such mingled agony and rapture that it might have popped.

Her teeth grazed Jonathan’s lip.

Sharp.

Do it, he found himself suddenly thinking at her. Urgent. A bootheel pressed to a phantom throat. Do it. Do it now. He wants it. We both know it. We know he will not live without you. If you are undead, he shall be too. If you are ended, he will fall on his blade. Save time. Save him. Keep him. Just a taste. Go on.

She pulled away. Doing so, she saw that delicious, that delirious, that most divine truth in her husband’s face.

Yes. He would let her. Be it now or tomorrow or at the far end of her change. He would let her.

And if not you? Do you think he would deny my offer a second time if it meant joining you? Or should it come from your Sisters? They were so looking forward to a new pet of their own. Do it now and he can be ours alone. Do it and save everyone the pain of waiting. To stall the inevitable only makes the hurt worse. I know from experience. Take him. Now.

Her voice tried to crawl up her throat. He collared it.

Now, Wine-Press!

Silent, she looked at Jonathan. Jonathan read what couldn’t be heard. The next kiss went to her knuckles. Her palm. Then he laid the latter flat against his heart as it beat steadily on.

“It’s yours. Always.”

Yes, my friend. I know.

And that was the sum of it for that evening. Damn them.

Night came, night went. He slipped back into his box as the sun crept up. They would want another trance, perhaps, and it was best he be an idle carcass when the time came. As he settled in, he treated himself to a parting glimpse through the woman’s eyes. Here was Jonathan again, standing before the mirror and seeing to the mechanics of shearing his stubble away. The woman caught herself staring at his throat a moment too long and snapped her gaze back up to the concentrating face in the glass. Perhaps wondering when she would lose her own reflection. Just as well. There would be more noteworthy views to come.

He pondered them as hard as he could, illustrating them in his mindscape for express delivery to her dreaming mind once sleep took her. It wouldn’t do to have all her rest come so peacefully. Not when there was so much excitement to come.

As a start, he would show her how he had taken Jonathan for the first time. Followed by all the ways he had taken him after. On back or belly, folded over or splayed wide, gasping or pleading. Always quick to please his Master, but always so teasingly shy about letting himself be pleased. Always thinking of a future that should not have existed: the one where he lived and left as a human being, crawling home to the daydream of his waiting lady.

This would be followed by merrily running him through that gauntlet again, albeit with Madam Wine-Press held at bay as neatly as any of his beasts. Jonathan would be no less obedient as the caveat would be that any disobedience would result in his wife tragically coming in contact with one of the Dutchman’s convenient Crosses. Ideally slotted as deeply in her as Jonathan’s Master was in him.

He could have her do it. If he was doubted, he would gladly demonstrate. For solidarity’s sake, perhaps he would also blunt and oil up one of the hunting party’s stakes. It would be interesting to see how far Jonathan might take it in as she watched.

So it would go for the opening act. Next, the dining hall. Her Sisters would be long since parched and deserving of some gesture of reconciliation after their own punishment. Madam Wine-Press could observe as Jonathan was shucked bare as a roast, drained at the neck and the loins until he was all but dry. Ah, still no taste for her yet! Come, to the marriage bed.

Not hers, of course.

Theirs.

The climax of Lenore and Wilhelm, consummated in the crypt where he had left the ebon coffin waiting in its proper place. There Jonathan would be laid, half-alive, feeble as a kitten. His Master would climb over the waiting bridegroom and order the woman to shut the lid for them. And she would.

All this and more danced just out of reach, a brilliant horizon far more precious than any mere silver lining. The visions were enough to scour away the last of the clouds in his mind. This detour would have a happy ending after all.

A pain reached him.

Small, but there. Incessant.

The woman was making two fists. Her nails cut hard into her palms as if she meant to gift herself stigmata. She was standing before the mirror as she did so. Jonathan had gone to the wardrobe and could be seen over her shoulder. Half-dressed, the landscape of his back and the lines of his throat stood out in mesmerizing relief. The woman regarded this, then herself. For the first time since it was bestowed on her, she did not spare a look for the burn. Just the eyes.

Not her own.

Pretense of ignorance or no, she saw her Master as much as he could ever be witnessed in a looking glass. Her voice came in a low crisp note, almost crystalline. A whisper glazed in poison:

“This man belongs to me.”

He smiled back at her and hoped she felt it. At the same time, a delightful thought occurred to him. He allowed his hands to travel. Under his shirt, below his belt, circle, tweak, tickle, stroke, pump. He imagined still being busy with this bit of maneuvering when it came time for the woman to have her sunrise trance. Would she speak honestly about her borrowed experience under the hypnosis? Better yet, would her own hands be forced to travel along the corresponding routes before her gawking audience? Could he manage opening the buttons of a blouse and the flipping of a skirt? Oh, to see dear Jonathan’s face during it all! To see it after she came awake!

It would be good for a laugh…but it would give him away too soon. He was to be no more than an ignorant drowsing lump in his dirt, after all. So he settled for finishing himself off as she stood before the mirror, glowering away as if it mattered. Jonathan came up to her a moment later. Hands were held and eyes were met with stinging tenderness.

In the dirt and the dark there was a last sigh before he settled himself into stillness like a good corpse.

Yes, Wine-Press, he belongs to you for the moment. Until he is returned to his rightful owner, be sure to kiss him for us both.

And she did.

#it's been ages since I did anything with a splash of smut in it #but then I started thinking about how Dracula might abuse his end of the psychic link with Mina #especially if/when the Harkers were trying to have some private time #first he takes her husband then her girlfriend then her blood #now the thieving bastard is even piggybacking off her senses while Jonathan [REDACTED]#content warning for some depictions of a coital nature #and references to past and implied future assault #give or take a few grislier revenge fantasies from the Count #anyway #jonathan harker #mina harker #dracula #my writing #re: dracula #dracula daily

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vickyvicarious · 21 days ago

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Mina waits until the 6th to write about killing Dracula, but of course it actually happened just before sunset on the 5th.

There's so much potential in those lost hours. She doesn't address anything after Quincey's death and her restoration to humanity. So we can only imagine what happened.

We don't know what they did with Quincey's body. How long did they attempt to resuscitate him? Or did they know it was too late as soon as she says? Perhaps there was a long silent moment as the sun set. Could they bury him in the cold hard ground? It's not like they have any shovels, unless they were willing to go down into the chapel of Castle Dracula in search of the ones left behind there. There are wolves out here who might try to eat the body if they leave it alone. The wagon was dragged away, so they couldn't use it to bring him back to civilization. Did they put him in Dracula's box and make it into some sort of sled? Did they separate, leaving some behind to guard him, and some to go and seek help from locals?

We don't see Mina's reunion with Jonathan, or Jack's with Van Helsing. Did the professor still hand over his memorandum? Did they talk about what they all had been through in their separate journeys? What do the Harkers talk about, if anything? Do they simply quietly grieve for their lost friend, and save all discussion for later? And what about Arthur, what does he do if/when the other two pairs separate into private reunions or conversations? Or do they all cling together as a group, all who remain, throughout this time?

We don't know where they slept that night. It was November in the mountains, and they're about a mile "steeply downhill" from the only shelter around. They may not want to stay in Castle Dracula (Jonathan especially) but do they have enough supplies to make camp out here? We know there was a snowstorm around them at least for a little while. On the other hand, could they safely make it to the castle at all if they tried? I doubt they would just leave Quincey's body behind, and in the dark and cold with everyone so weary maybe that mile feels like a much further distance.

We don't know how they leave, or when. The horses Mina and Van Helsing traveled with are all dead. Perhaps their carriage is still there, and they could hitch up the horses Jack, Quincey, Jonathan, and Arthur rode in on. Or did those horses flee the wolves or get stolen by the fleeing people as well? Would the carriage be big enough to fit everyone? Would it fit Quincey? Do they leave on the morning of the 6th or wait longer to try and bury their friend or to recover their strength?

We don't know under what circumstances Mina writes, and why then. Did she wait due to exhaustion, grief, or simply because it was cold and dark? Perhaps they didn't get back to her typewriter until the next day. Did she type this up as the men readied everything for their journey home, or after reaching some kind of shelter? Does she write then because she wants to be the one to close things out, or because if she waits she doesn't think she'll be able to later on, or to reassure herself in part that she can now? She calls Dracula the Thing rather than the Vampire; I wonder if that is a kind of freedom she didn't have mere days ago.

#dracula daily #mina murray

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flutteringphalanges · 4 years ago

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Summary: It is public knowledge that Zoe Van Helsing is the last of her blood line. Not to mention that, in a sense, Count Dracula is too. However, after an unexpected night of passion, both their lives dramatically change when Zoe becomes pregnant. Two unconventional parents, one extraordinary pregnancy. What could go wrong?

Rating: M

Pairings: Zoe Van Helsing/Dracula implied Agatha/Dracula

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: I can’t believe I updated TWO stories in ONE day! This is a first for me in a long time lol! Sorry for being overly excited. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Feedback is greatly loved and appreciated! -Jen

Chapter Seven

Zoe no longer winced at needles. After being diagnosed with cancer, she was so used to being pricked and prodded she barely batted an eyelash. As her oncologist drew yet another vial of blood for testing, she sighed softly to herself and gazed upwards at the clock. This appointment was cutting way past her lunch break and in her current state, food was rather important. Particularly when it came to her mood.

"We'll send these down to the lab, but as I said earlier, you're still in remission." Dr. Elliott commented, discarding the needles into the waste container. "Have you felt off at all? I mean, I realize you are pregnant and symptoms can be hard to distinguish sometimes."

"I'm fine." The scientist said with a small smile. "The last thing that sent me vomiting was a block of old cheese I left in the back of the fridge." Absentmindedly, a hand traveled to the small swell of her stomach. "And my obstetrician says the twins look good development wise."

"That's wonderful news!" Her doctor smiled, scribbling something down on her chart. "And their father must be excited as well. You've never brought him in before, I'd quite like to meet him."

Now that made her wince. She envisioned Dracula walking into the cancer ward asking bizarrely specific questions about the various blood bags destined for patient transfusions. Zoe swallowed, mustering up the courage to tell yet another lie in this web of who and what her twins were.

"We aren't together." She said slowly. "It's a complicated situation."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I had no idea. I shouldn't have even brought it up." Dr. Elliott nearly stammered. "It wasn't any of my business. I was merely curious…"

"It's quite alright." Zoe assured her, forcing a smile. "Really, you're not the first. And honestly, it's for the best...all things considered."

"I suppose that's what's important." The oncologist nodded, setting the chart down beside a computer. "Well, that's all I need from you today, Ms. Van Helsing. You know the drill, if you have any concerns or any odd or new symptoms start to arise, please contact me immediately. Especially with you being pregnant, we don't want to take any risks. If your blood results show something, we'll give you a call."

"Okay." The scientist nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."

"It was good to see you again, Zoe." Dr. Elliott smiled, reaching for the door handle. "And congratulations again on the little ones. Being a mum is worth all of the troubles."

Zoe smiled but said nothing as the doctor left the room. When the door closed behind her, she inhaled deeply and ran a hand through her hair. Though she meant well, the woman really had no idea what was in store for the scientist. Not that the mother herself had much of a thought either. Rubbing her bump gently, she glanced once more at the clock. Time for work, and what a day, she knew, it'd be.

XXX

"Maybe someone else should go in with him, you know?" Jack suggested, trying to keep up with Zoe's long strides. "With you being pregnant and all? What if he hurts you?"

Hours had passed since Zoe's doctor visit and the sun had finally sunk over the horizon. As they had discussed, Dracula had held up his end of the bargain and voluntarily entered the Jonathan Harker Foundation. The scientist, of course, had yet to catch sight of him, but knew well enough that Dr. Bloxham and some approved escorts-as chosen by both her boss and the lawyer, were waiting patiently in a secure area.

"He's not going to harm me," the scientist assured him. "Trust me, he wouldn't dare."

"You being sure of that doesn't outweigh the risks." The younger man continued to counter. "Zoe, please." He took the woman by the arm causing her to stop in her tracks. "Don't do this."

For the briefest of moments, a small part of her considered the idea of telling Jack. Admitting that the father of her children was not a stranger, but the vampire Count Dracula himself. But she knew doing so right now was in neither of their best interests. She hated being deceptive. Despised it even. Yet she accepted the fact that she must.

"I'll be okay, Jack." Zoe said gently, pulling away from the doctor. "I am more than capable of handling myself. I've done it before. "The scientist gazed towards the closed metal doors that led into the room where the Count sat freely–without any sort of restraints as per agreement, and sighed. "Interesting yes, but dangerous…" She chewed on the inside of her cheek, choosing her next words carefully. "I'm probably safer in there with him than anywhere else."

And without looking back to gauge Jack's reaction, she slid in her key card and entered the sterile space. The room was rather empty in the sense that not much was in it. It sort of reminded her of those interrogation rooms from crime shows. Unlike last time, there was no prison but a simple metal table with some chairs.

Zoe blinked, the bright light somewhat irritating as she took note of the others in the room. Three burly men stood in the back, their eyes fixed on the scientist. Attached to each of their hips was a strange looking device. A stun gun of some sort she figured. But more importantly, there, sitting rather comfortably in the center was the vampire himself.

"Ah, Dr. Van Helsing." Dracula greeted as the woman ventured over, taking a seat. "I was beginning to worry you wouldn't show up and I'd have the misfortune of talking to someone else. Glad to see I can rest easy."

"I apologize if I kept you waiting." She almost had to force the words out. "I was held up with other things. You've been treated well I assume?"

"Well, no one has threatened to burn me into a crisp like last time." The Count smirked, folding his arms over his chest. "I'd say that is an upgrade. Now, enough about me for a moment, Zoe-can I call you that since we'll be working together after all?"

"I suppose…" She muttered, frowning slightly. "...That would be appropriate."

He seemed to smile at this. "If you don't mind me being intrusive, I wanted to ask how your oncology appointment went today. A little birdie told me you had one and considering your condition-congratulations by the way." The way he smiled as he spoke made Zoe's skin crawl. "Well, I thought I'd be polite and ask. We are working together now."

"Fine." She said through clenched teeth. "But you aren't here to discuss me."

"Do something to provoke him. Perhaps he'll make a move and one of the guards will dispose of him properly."

Now standing alongside the three men was the familiar spirit of Agatha. Her blue eyes gave a piercing stare in the vampire's direction. Zoe chewed on her bottom lip, trying not to focus on her late aunt.

"Is everything alright, Zoe?" Dracula asked curiously, snapping the woman out of her trance. "I believe we were on the topic of discussing me rather than you-which is rather unfortunate on my end." His fingers laced together over the table. "I was told you needed another blood sample from me. That the other one went...missing." His tongue briefly darted out as he licked his lips. "I must admit that's rather clumsy on your department's part."

"Yes, well, things happen." Zoe interjected feeling the heat rise up the back of her neck. "But getting another one shouldn't be a problem now will it?"

"Only if you take it yourself." The vampire smirked, chuckling lightly. "You did a good enough job last time...even if it did go missing."

"Serpent." Agatha hissed from her spot in the room.

"We'll be more vigilant this time." The scientist promised with a frown. "That's a guarantee."

XXX

Zoe couldn't help but grimace a little when Dracula slid his nail over his wrist, slicing through his flesh like fresh butter. She could feel his eyes watching her as she carefully collected the sample, handing it off to a tech that had entered the room.

"Open." She commanded, holding a long cotton swab. "I need your saliva."

"Aren't you worried I might bite?" The vampire teased, opening his mouth as the woman threw him a look. "Adventurous, but aren't all Van Helsings." Zoe continued to be silent as she handed off the Q-tip. "How's your pregnancy fairing? From what little I've picked up from my time here, you don't talk to others much about it."

"My private life and work life are separate for a reason." The scientist finally said, taking a step back from the Count. "And I'd like to keep it that way, especially with you. Here." She sat back down in her seat.

"So what exactly do you plan to do with all of the DNA you took from me?" Dracula asked curiously. "I certainly hope not to attempt to replicate me. Though, an army of vampires might be of use to the government. A race of super soldiers the likes of which the world has never seen." He laughed at his pitiful joke.

"As we expressed before with your lawyer, we merely want to understand you. Humanely. And if you keep cooperating like you are now, things will remain easy." Zoe inhaled deeply. "And if you are curious about the results, I would be more than happy to share with you what we learn as we go along."

"Science is fascinating, isn't it?" Dracula mused, his eyes traveling down to the woman's stomach. "Really makes you ponder about the little things in life."

It was as if he wanted to rely to the world who the father to the twins residing in her belly were. The way he pushed at the boundaries of it all. Zoe tried not to tense up as his dark eyes met hers. They were a team now, in more ways than one. And whether she liked it or not, the expecting mother would have to make it work.

"I think we're done here." Zoe said standing up. "I'll see you tomorrow, Count Dracula."

She turned on her heels as he called out something to her. Whatever it was, it fell on deaf ears. Exhausted, she made her way out of the room. Thankfully, it seemed Jack had already left for the night. The last thing she needed was to go over today's events with him. Some soup, a movie, and a fuzzy blanket sounded like the closest thing one could reach to Heaven as Zoe headed towards her car.

"You seem to be in an awfully big hurry."

Zoe turned around and bit back a groan as Dracula came into sight. Gone were the guards and any sign of human life. Just the scientist and the vampire alone in the parking lot under the dim street lights.

"Go away." She mumbled. "I've had enough of you for one night."

"I did as you asked." The vampire replied simply. "A thank you would suffice."

"No, what you nearly did was give away the fact that I not only tampered with important evidence, but I conceived not one, but two babies with you!" Zoe hissed under her breath. "So I won't be thanking you."

"Ah, hormones, I read they were raging during the second trimester." Dracula commented, shaking his head. "Don't worry, I honestly don't take it personally. When you come to your senses, you'll realize that in the end, you are the one being ridiculous about this."

"Ridicul-"

Suddenly, a sharp pain ignited from Zoe's lower abdomen. The amusement fell from the vampire's face as the scientist let out a sharp yelp and grabbed the spot. Stars flooded Zoe's vision and they weren't from the sky. Someone called out her name, the word sounding distant as darkness began to swallow her up. A pair of arms caught her before she hit the ground and as the world started to fade, the look of horror etched on Dracula's face might have even been comical. If it weren't for the two, fragile little lives within her.

#Dracula 2020 #Dracula #Agatha Van Helsing #Zoe Van Helsing #Zacula #Gemini

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thenightling · 5 years ago

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Running a Gothic Horror Facebook Group during the autumn... (Not as pleasant as it sounds)

I’m getting kind of annoyed at the behavior of some (not all, obviously) people in my Gothic Horror Group on Facebook. It seems every year around October I get an abundance of new members and that’s great. It’s the Halloween season. That’s when people feel spooky. But then come late November I find myself having to thin the herd.

First there are the creeps who think Goth girls are easy. One man who had been friends with me on Facebook for a few years decided now would be a great time to flirt with me. On November 3rd he sent me the message of “I am a Gomez without a Morticia.” I suppose this is kind of sweet and makes clear the sort of romantic / Gothic relationship he’s seeking but I chose to pretend to be oblivious at what he was hinting at.

Yesterday that same man saw I had uploaded some new photos of myself. As I live in a deadzone I don’t have a functional cellphone so the camera I use to take photos of myself is attached to an old laptop. The best lighting in the house is in my own bathroom so that’s why the photos aren’t exactly great. And why so many of my photos look similar.

However this “polite” and “Friendly” man decided to message me with “I noticed you wear the same dress and pendant in all your pictures.” Well, for starters. I’ve never taken a photo of myself in a dress. I’m sure someone has one someone but I’ve never loaded one to Facebook and it would be at least ten-years-old. I just like a particular style of shirt and often wear dark colors or black. In fact the Shirt I was wearing in the new picture was less than two months old. Also a few of my photos have me wearing a garnet pendant. Others wearing a pentacle. So no, not even the same pendant in all my pictures though I do admit I wear my pentacle often.

Needless to say I was angry. How Could I not be? He thought he was being polite and friendly. Gee... And you wonder why you can’t find your Morticia...

I chewed him out and he apologized and told me a weird sob story about how he was abducted by his mother and her boyfriend at age twelve with only a TV as his window to the outside world until he was eighteen so that’s why he has such poor social skills. Despite the utter unlikelyhood of this I chose to give the benefit of the doubt and forgave him. He asked me to post on my Facebook wall that we were cool now. And that made me lose it again. I wasn’t quite not-angry anymore so I went off on him again about how his statement hurt me. So he decided to “unfriend” me until I calm down but chose to haunt the groups I run anyway. I had him removed.

Then there are those who criticize EVERY slightly off topic post. “How his this Gothic Horror?” Well, how about YOU find some actual Gothic Horror content so I don’t have to supplement with scifi, fantasy, and comics. Also most of what they bitch about not being Gothic Horror actually IS Gothic Horror. I had one member insist there’s nothing Gothic in Buffy The Vampire Slayer! (TV show, not movie.)

Then there was the “white knight” who decided to argue with me, insisting that Beauty and the Beast is Stockholm Syndrome and that it’s “dangerous” and “stupid” to believe people can change because it’s akin to condoning a violently abusive relationship because he might change. Even though I had gone out of my way to repeatedly say I don’t believe anyone should stay in an abusive relationship though DO believe we are capable of changing ourselves as individuals. There is such a thing as personal growth. Even changing your mind about something, admitting you were wrong, is a form of change.

Well, after he called my views stupid and dangerous I ultimately removed him but then his friends (all of them, also, male) came to his defense and how I should respect his opinion, that he has a right to his opinion. Opinions are like preferring chocolate ice cream to strawberry. It’s not getting away with calling the group owner stupid and dangerous for liking Beauty and The Beast and believing we can better ourselves. If we stop believing people can change for the better, we might as well stop believing we can grow. If you decide you’re not a good person but don’t believe people can change, where does that leave you? It leaves you with a mindset unwilling to even try to improve yourself and become a better person. We have to believe in change, for our own sakes.

Next we come to the spammers. Not only did I gain new spammers but they had blocked me and the other admins so I had to pull out my “secret mod” and give them temporary admin power to remove the person. You see, when a spammer blocks an admin we cannot see what they are posting. This is a very unfortunate and dangerous security flaw on Facebook.

Someone else (who actually was a horror fan) thought it was a good idea to block me, probably because I was “posting too much” ON MY GROUP!

Then there was the person posting links to a pro-suicide group, not realizing I could translate the non-English text that described what the group was about... (How were they getting away with this on Facebook!??)

Someone else with a “Dark sense of humor” was posting some off color things. I scolded him. He decided that “For the sake of the group” he’d leave. I hadn’t booted him, I hadn’t told him to leave. He decided to do it himself. THEN he sent me at least TWO private messages about leaving the group and hoping the group would be better off without him. I told him he was over reacting over something minor and he said “Funny, I felt the same way.” And proceeded to heavily hint that he wanted me to ask him to come back.

NO! You leave, that’s your own choice. I don’t beg anyone to stay. Especially someone I barely know on my own Gothic Horror Group.

Then we go over to my Horror comics group where for months I had to deal with someone’s “off color” sense of humor and “dark humor” about deliberately ruining the childhoods of modern kids (by letting their over-zealous mothers keep them away from Fairy Tales and Disney princesses as “sexist” because it’s “Funny.” This is something I’m strongly against. I do not agree with keeping kids from fantasy or classic literature just because cultures have changed). Meanwhile if I post ANYTHING at all from Channel Awesome or The Nostalgia Critic, from a review of Blade or Tales from the Crypt: Demon Knight he would go on a tangent about how EVIL Doug Walker is and bring up that stupid Cancel Channel Awesome Manifesto, in some righteous rage. SHUT UP! I don’t care! He’s never wronged me or anyone I know and I don’t automatically assume guilt in any situation!

Finally I got fed up and removed this member.

And then there’s a friend, a friend who is in both groups and who I let get away with posting one too many of his anti-SJW / “progressives” rants (he uses the quotation marks, not me). Saying things like he hopes all progressives die, to which I have to remind him yet again that I AM liberal only for him to suffer an apparent medical emergency so I feel bad for yelling at him. EVEN THOUGH His “Hahaha suck it, “progressives! Hahaha!” (about the Joker earning a billion dollars) was in both groups and attracted angry political zealots from both sides of the spectrum. And I had to remove those people too!

It turned out his “Progressive” post had become the sample post when anyone searched for “Horror comics” so people leapt to conclusions about what the group was about.

And though on another group this is worth mentioning. Someone on a group I’m in posted a funny meme about someone correcting Dracula’s pronunciation of “Vant” into “Want.” Someone else chimed in by telling him it wasn’t funny because the REAL Dracula would just tear out the person’s throat and only a pussy Twilight vampire would care about something like that.

I pointed out that in the Dracula novel he does care about his pronunciation and wants to sound English. He even uses this as part of the excuse to keep Harker in his castle. I also broke it to him that the mindless predatory vampire of things like 30 Days of Night were also the result of Twilight in a phenomena I call the polarization of the pop culture vampire where you get one extreme of the pretty boy vegan who hates what he is or the mindless predator. Dracula is neither. I happen to like the Frank Langella version of Dracula from 1979 because he was predatory yet romantic. He liked what he was yet he was charming. He could rip out someone’s throat while also being charismatic. There should be a balance.

Instead of realizing he was mistaken he accused me of being an OFFENDED (he used the caplock there) Twilight fan who was “Triggered,” called me a snowflake, and went on a rant about liberals. Thankfully most of that group (a Universal monsters group) came to my defense. There were a few that assumed he was right because they seem to immediately react to things like “lol Triggered!” to mean (without even looking at the content that the person must be wrong.

So if you’re wondering why I’m so high strung and in a bad mood lately when I’m checking my own facebook groups, yeah... This is why.

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draculalive · 5 years ago

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Jonathan Harker’s Journal

2 October, evening. — A long and trying and exciting day. By the first post I got my directed envelope with a dirty scrap of paper enclosed, on which was written with a carpenter’s pencil in a sprawling hand:—

Sam Bloxam, Korkrans, 4, Poters Cort, Bartel Street, Walworth. Arsk for the depite.

I got the letter in bed, and rose without waking Mina. She looked heavy and sleepy and pale, and far from well. I determined not to wake her, but that, when I should return from this new search, I would arrange for her going back to Exeter. I think she would be happier in our own home, with her daily tasks to interest her, than in being here amongst us and in ignorance. I only saw Dr. Seward for a moment, and told him where I was off to, promising to come back and tell the rest so soon as I should have found out anything. I drove to Walworth and found, with some difficulty, Potter’s Court. Mr. Smollet’s spelling misled me, as I asked for Poter’s Court instead of Potter’s Court. However, when I had found the court, I had no difficulty in discovering Corcoran’s lodging-house. When I asked the man who came to the door for the “depite,” he shook his head, and said: “I dunno ’im. There ain’t no such a person ’ere; I never ’eard of ’im in all my bloomin’ days. Don’t believe there ain’t nobody of that kind livin’ ere or anywheres.” I took out Smollet’s letter, and as I read it it seemed to me that the lesson of the spelling of the name of the court might guide me. “What are you?” I asked.

“I’m the depity,” he answered. I saw at once that I was on the right track; phonetic spelling had again misled me. A half-crown tip put the deputy’s knowledge at my disposal, and I learned that Mr. Bloxam, who had slept off the remains of his beer on the previous night at Corcoran’s, had left for his work at Poplar at five o’clock that morning. He could not tell me where the place of work was situated, but he had a vague idea that it was some kind of a “new-fangled ware’us”; and with this slender clue I had to start for Poplar. It was twelve o’clock before I got any satisfactory hint of such a building, and this I got at a coffee-shop, where some workmen were having their dinner. One of these suggested that there was being erected at Cross Angel Street a new “cold storage” building; and as this suited the condition of a “new-fangled ware’us,” I at once drove to it. An interview with a surly gatekeeper and a surlier foreman, both of whom were appeased with the coin of the realm, put me on the track of Bloxam; he was sent for on my suggesting that I was willing to pay his day’s wages to his foreman for the privilege of asking him a few questions on a private matter. He was a smart enough fellow, though rough of speech and bearing. When I had promised to pay for his information and given him an earnest, he told me that he had made two journeys between Carfax and a house in Piccadilly, and had taken from this house to the latter nine great boxes — “main heavy ones” — with a horse and cart hired by him for this purpose. I asked him if he could tell me the number of the house in Piccadilly, to which he replied:—

“Well, guv’nor, I forgits the number, but it was only a few doors from a big white church or somethink of the kind, not long built. It was a dusty old ’ouse, too, though nothin’ to the dustiness of the ’ouse we tooked the bloomin’ boxes from.”

“How did you get into the houses if they were both empty?”

“There was the old party what engaged me a-waitin’ in the ’ouse at Purfleet. He ’elped me to lift the boxes and put them in the dray. Curse me, but he was the strongest chap I ever struck, an’ him a old feller, with a white moustache, one that thin you would think he couldn’t throw a shadder.”

How this phrase thrilled through me!

“Why, ’e took up ’is end o’ the boxes like they was pounds of tea, and me a-puffin’ an’ a-blowin’ afore I could up-end mine anyhow — an’ I’m no chicken, neither.”

“How did you get into the house in Piccadilly?” I asked.

“He was there too. He must ’a’ started off and got there afore me, for when I rung of the bell he kem an’ opened the door ’isself an’ ’elped me to carry the boxes into the ’all.”

“The whole nine?” I asked.

“Yus; there was five in the first load an’ four in the second. It was main dry work, an’ I don’t so well remember ’ow I got ’ome.” I interrupted him:—

“Were the boxes left in the hall?”

“Yus; it was a big ’all, an’ there was nothin’ else in it.” I made one more attempt to further matters:—

“You didn’t have any key?”

“Never used no key nor nothink. The old gent, he opened the door ’isself an’ shut it again when I druv off. I don’t remember the last time — but that was the beer.”

“And you can’t remember the number of the house?”

“No, sir. But ye needn’t have no difficulty about that. It’s a ’igh ’un with a stone front with a bow on it, an’ ’igh steps up to the door. I know them steps, ’avin’ ’ad to carry the boxes up with three loafers what come round to earn a copper. The old gent give them shillin’s, an’ they seein’ they got so much, they wanted more; but ’e took one of them by the shoulder and was like to throw ’im down the steps, till the lot of them went away cussin’.” I thought that with this description I could find the house, so, having paid my friend for his information, I started off for Piccadilly. I had gained a new painful experience; the Count could, it was evident, handle the earth-boxes himself. If so, time was precious; for, now that he had achieved a certain amount of distribution, he could, by choosing his own time, complete the task unobserved. At Piccadilly Circus I discharged my cab, and walked westward; beyond the Junior Constitutional I came across the house described, and was satisfied that this was the next of the lairs arranged by Dracula. The house looked as though it had been long untenanted. The windows were encrusted with dust, and the shutters were up. All the framework was black with time, and from the iron the paint had mostly scaled away. It was evident that up to lately there had been a large notice-board in front of the balcony; it had, however, been roughly torn away, the uprights which had supported it still remaining. Behind the rails of the balcony I saw there were some loose boards, whose raw edges looked white. I would have given a good deal to have been able to see the notice-board intact, as it would, perhaps, have given some clue to the ownership of the house. I remembered my experience of the investigation and purchase of Carfax, and I could not but feel that if I could find the former owner there might be some means discovered of gaining access to the house.

There was at present nothing to be learned from the Piccadilly side, and nothing could be done; so I went round to the back to see if anything could be gathered from this quarter. The mews were active, the Piccadilly houses being mostly in occupation. I asked one or two of the grooms and helpers whom I saw around if they could tell me anything about the empty house. One of them said that he heard it had lately been taken, but he couldn’t say from whom. He told me, however, that up to very lately there had been a notice-board of “For Sale” up, and that perhaps Mitchell, Sons, & Candy, the house agents, could tell me something, as he thought he remembered seeing the name of that firm on the board. I did not wish to seem too eager, or to let my informant know or guess too much, so, thanking him in the usual manner, I strolled away. It was now growing dusk, and the autumn night was closing in, so I did not lose any time. Having learned the address of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy from a directory at the Berkeley, I was soon at their office in Sackville Street.

The gentleman who saw me was particularly suave in manner, but uncommunicative in equal proportion. Having once told me that the Piccadilly house — which throughout our interview he called a “mansion” — was sold, he considered my business as concluded. When I asked who had purchased it, he opened his eyes a thought wider, and paused a few seconds before replying:—

“It is sold, sir.”

“Pardon me,” I said, with equal politeness, “but I have a special reason for wishing to know who purchased it.”

Again he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still more. “It is sold, sir,” was again his laconic reply.

“Surely,” I said, “you do not mind letting me know so much.”

“But I do mind,” he answered. “The affairs of their clients are absolutely safe in the hands of Mitchell, Sons, & Candy.” This was manifestly a prig of the first water, and there was no use arguing with him. I thought I had best meet him on his own ground, so I said:—

“Your clients, sir, are happy in having so resolute a guardian of their confidence. I am myself a professional man.” Here I handed him my card. “In this instance I am not prompted by curiosity; I act on the part of Lord Godalming, who wishes to know something of the property which was, he understood, lately for sale.” These words put a different complexion on affairs. He said:—

“I would like to oblige you if I could, Mr. Harker, and especially would I like to oblige his lordship. We once carried out a small matter of renting some chambers for him when he was the Honourable Arthur Holmwood. If you will let me have his lordship’s address I will consult the House on the subject, and will, in any case, communicate with his lordship by to-night’s post. It will be a pleasure if we can so far deviate from our rules as to give the required information to his lordship.”

I wanted to secure a friend, and not to make an enemy, so I thanked him, gave the address at Dr. Seward’s and came away. It was now dark, and I was tired and hungry. I got a cup of tea at the Aërated Bread Company and came down to Purfleet by the next train.

I found all the others at home. Mina was looking tired and pale, but she made a gallant effort to be bright and cheerful, it wrung my heart to think that I had had to keep anything from her and so caused her inquietude. Thank God, this will be the last night of her looking on at our conferences, and feeling the sting of our not showing our confidence. It took all my courage to hold to the wise resolution of keeping her out of our grim task. She seems somehow more reconciled; or else the very subject seems to have become repugnant to her, for when any accidental allusion is made she actually shudders. I am glad we made our resolution in time, as with such a feeling as this, our growing knowledge would be torture to her.

I could not tell the others of the day’s discovery till we were alone; so after dinner — followed by a little music to save appearances even amongst ourselves — I took Mina to her room and left her to go to bed. The dear girl was more affectionate with me than ever, and clung to me as though she would detain me; but there was much to be talked of and I came away. Thank God, the ceasing of telling things has made no difference between us.

When I came down again I found the others all gathered round the fire in the study. In the train I had written my diary so far, and simply read it off to them as the best means of letting them get abreast of my own information; when I had finished Van Helsing said:—

“This has been a great day’s work, friend Jonathan. Doubtless we are on the track of the missing boxes. If we find them all in that house, then our work is near the end. But if there be some missing, we must search until we find them. Then shall we make our final coup, and hunt the wretch to his real death.” We all sat silent awhile and all at once Mr. Morris spoke:—

“Say! how are we going to get into that house?”

“We got into the other,” answered Lord Godalming quickly.

“But, Art, this is different. We broke house at Carfax, but we had night and a walled park to protect us. It will be a mighty different thing to commit burglary in Piccadilly, either by day or night. I confess I don’t see how we are going to get in unless that agency duck can find us a key of some sort; perhaps we shall know when you get his letter in the morning.” Lord Godalming’s brows contracted, and he stood up and walked about the room. By-and-by he stopped and said, turning from one to another of us:—

“Quincey’s head is level. This burglary business is getting serious; we got off once all right; but we have now a rare job on hand — unless we can find the Count’s key basket.”

As nothing could well be done before morning, and as it would be at least advisable to wait till Lord Godalming should hear from Mitchell’s, we decided not to take any active step before breakfast time. For a good while we sat and smoked, discussing the matter in its various lights and bearings; I took the opportunity of bringing this diary right up to the moment. I am very sleepy and shall go to bed…

Just a line. Mina sleeps soundly and her breathing is regular. Her forehead is puckered up into little wrinkles, as though she thinks even in her sleep. She is still too pale, but does not look so haggard as she did this morning. To-morrow will, I hope, mend all this; she will be herself at home in Exeter. Oh, but I am sleepy!

#dracula #draculalive #vampires

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beyondforks · 7 years ago

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Book Review: Our Dark Duet by Victoria Schwab

Our Dark Duet (Monsters of Verity #2) by Victoria Schwab Genre: Young Adult (Paranormal/Fantasy/Dystopian) Date Published: June 13, 2017 Publisher: Greenwillow Books

THE WORLD IS BREAKING. AND SO ARE THEY.

KATE HARKER isn't afraid of monsters. She hunts them. And she's good at it.

AUGUST FLYNN once yearned to be human. He has a part to play. And he will play it, no matter the cost.

THE WAR HAS BEGUN.

THE MONSTERS ARE WINNING.

Kate will have to return to Verity. August will have to let her back in. And a new monster is waiting—one that feeds on chaos and brings out its victims' inner demons.

Which will be harder to conquer: the monsters they face, or the monsters within?

Our Dark Duet is the second and final book in the Monsters of Verity duology by Victoria Schwab. I'm not sure what happened,but this wasn't the book I was expecting to read. While it has the action and gore that you'd expect it to have for this story line to work, I had such a hard time staying focused. The pacing was slow. I don't feel like we learned much more about the monsters(especially the newest monster), or really anything more about what's going on in their world than we already knew. There was no real plot progression. I didn't think so anyway. Did I miss something? And the ending just wasn't great. I needed more from it...or something. Through the book, things seemed to happen without any real reason, and I want to know those reasons. We really needed to know more about the Chaos Eater too. I have so many questions... where does this all leave their world now? Is is better? Is it worse? The same? I don't know.

I loved the first book quite a bit, so I was already going into this one with some pretty high expectations. The premise behind these books is fantastic. It makes complete sense that monsters would be created from the evil behind tragic events. The people behind those events are already monsters, so it fits. It's believable. I haven't read anything similar before. I love finding that kind of originality when I read. But, I don't feel like this second book lived up to the expectations created by the first book. And I know, a lot of people feel the opposite, and that's great. Maybe this second book just wasn't for me. I honestly don't know what to think now. Maybe I missed something. I really feel like must have missed something crucial. I'm at a loss.

VERSE ONE MONSTER HUNTER ONE PROSPERITY Kate Harker hit the ground running. Blood dripped from a shallow cut on her calf, and her lungs were sore from the blow she’d taken to the chest. Thank God for armor, even if it was makeshift. “Turn right.” Her boots slid on the slick pavement as she rounded the corner onto a side street. She swore when she saw it was full of people, restaurant canopies up and tables out despite the brewing storm. Teo’s voice rose in her ear. “It’s catching up.” Kate backtracked and took off down the main road. “If you don’t want a mass casualty event, find me somewhere else.” “Half a block, then cut right,” said Bea, and Kate felt like the avatar in some multiplayer game where a girl was chased by monsters through a massive city. Only this massive city was real—the capital at the heart of Prosperity—and so were the monsters. Well, monster. She’d taken out one, but a second was heading her way. The shadows wicked around her as she ran. A chill twisted through the damp night and fat drops of rain dripped under her collar and down her back. “Left up ahead,” instructed Bea, and Kate bolted past a row of shops and down an alley, leaving a trail of fear and blood like bread crumbs in her wake. She reached a narrow lot and a wall, only it wasn’t a wall, but a warehouse door, and for a split second she was back in the abandoned building in the Waste, cuffed to a bar in a blacked-out room while somewhere beyond the door, metal struck bone and someone— “Left.” Kate blinked the memory away as Bea repeated her instruction. But she was sick of running, and the door was ajar, so she went straight, out of the rain and into the vacant space. There were no windows in the warehouse, no light at all save that from the street behind her, which reached only a few feet—the rest of the steel structure was plunged into solid black. Kate’s pulse pounded in her head as she cracked a glorified glow stick—Liam’s idea—and tossed it into the shadows, flooding the warehouse with steady white light. “Kate . . . ,” chimed in Riley for the first time. “Be careful.” She snorted. Count on Riley to give useless advice. She scanned the warehouse, spotted crates piled within reach of the steel rafters overhead, and started to climb, hauling herself the last of the way up just as the door rattled on its hinges. Kate froze. She held her breath as fingers—not flesh and bone, but something else—curled around the door and slid it open. Static sounded in her good ear. “Status?” asked Liam nervously. “Busy,” she hissed, balancing on the rafters as the monster filled the doorway, and for an instant, Kate imagined Sloan’s red eyes, his shining fangs, his dark suit. Come out, little Katherine, he’d say. Let’s play a game. The sweat on her skin chilled, but it was just her mind playing tricks on her—the creature edging forward into the warehouse wasn’t a Malchai. It was something else entirely. It had a Malchai’s red eyes, yes, and a Corsai’s sharp claws, but its skin was the bluish black of a rotting corpse, and it wasn’t after flesh or blood. It fed on hearts. Kate didn’t know why she’d assumed the monsters would be the same. Verity had its triad, but here she had only come across a single kind. So far. Then again, Verity boasted the highest crime rate of all ten territories—thanks in large part, she was sure, to her father—while Prosperity’s sins were harder to place. On the books, Prosperity was the wealthiest territory by half, but it was a robust economy rotting from the inside out. If Verity’s sins were knives, quick and vicious, then Prosperity’s were poison. Slow, insidious, but just as deadly. And when the violence began to coalesce into something tangible, something monstrous, it didn’t happen all at once, as in Verity, but in a drip, slow enough that most of the city was still pretending the monsters weren’t real. The thing in the warehouse suggested otherwise. The monster inhaled, as though trying to smell her, a chilling reminder of which of them was the predator and which, for the moment, was prey. Fear scraped along her spine as its head swung from side to side. And then it looked up. At her. Kate didn’t wait. She dropped down, catching herself on the steel rafter to ease the fall. She landed in a crouch between the monster and the warehouse door, spikes flashing in her hands, each the length of her forearm and filed to a vicious point. “Looking for me?” The creature turned, flashing two dozen blue-black teeth in a feral grimace. “Kate?” pressed Teo. “You see it?” “Yeah,” she said dryly. “I see it.” Bea and Liam both started talking, but Kate tapped her ear and the voices dropped out, replaced a second later by a strong beat, a heavy bass. The music filled her head, drowning out her fear and her doubt and her pulse and every other useless thing. The monster curled its long fingers, and Kate braced herself—the first one had tried to punch right through her chest (she’d have the bruises to prove it). But the attack didn’t come. “What’s the matter?” she chided, her voice lost beneath the beat. “Is my heart not good enough?” She had wondered, briefly, in the beginning, if the crimes written on her soul would somehow make her less appetizing. Apparently not. A second later, the monster lunged. Kate was always surprised to discover that monsters were fast. No matter how big. No matter how ugly. She dodged back, quick on her feet. Five years’ and six private schools’ worth of self-defense had given her a head start, but the last six months hunting down things that went bump in Prosperity—that had been the real education. She danced between blows, trying to avoid the monster’s claws and get under its guard. Nails raked the air above Kate’s head as she ducked and slashed the iron spike across the creature’s outstretched hand. It snarled and swung at her, recoiling only after its claws bit into her sleeve and hit copper mesh beneath. The armor absorbed most of the damage, but Kate still hissed as somewhere on her arm the skin parted and blood welled up. She let out a curse and drove her boot into the creature’s chest. It was twice her size, made of hunger and gore and God knew what else, but the sole of her shoe was plated with iron, and the creature went staggering backward, clawing at itself as the pure metal burned away a stretch of mottled flesh, exposing the thick membrane that shielded its heart. Bull’s-eye. Kate launched herself forward, aiming for the still- sizzling mark. The spike punched through cartilage and muscle before sinking easily into that vital core. Funny, she thought, that even monsters had fragile hearts. Her momentum carried her forward, and the monster fell back, and they went down together, its body collapsing beneath her into a mound of gore and rot. Kate staggered to her feet, holding her breath against the noxious fumes until she reached the warehouse door. She slumped against it, pressing a palm to the gash on her arm. The song was ending in her ear, and she switched the feed back to Control. “How long has it been?” “We have to do something.” “Shut up,” she said. “I’m here.” A string of profanity. A few stock lines of relief. “Status?” asked Bea. Kate pulled the cell from her pocket, snapped a photo of the gory slick on the concrete, and hit send. “Jesus,” answered Bea. “Wicked,” said Liam. “Looks fake,” offered Teo. Riley sounded queasy. “Do they always . . . fall apart?” The litany in her ear was just another reminder that these people had no business being on this end of the fight. They had their purpose, but they weren’t like her. Weren’t hunters. “How about you, Kate?” asked Riley. “You okay?” Blood soaked her calf and dripped from her fingers, and truth be told, she felt a little dizzy, but Riley was human—she didn’t have to tell him the truth. “Peachy,” she said, killing the call before any of them could hear the catch in her breath. The glow stick flickered and faded, plunging her back into the dark. But she didn’t mind. It was empty now.

Check out my review of the first book in this duology!

Victoria is the product of a British mother, a Beverly Hills father, and a southern upbringing. Because of this, she has been known to say "tom-ah-toes," "like," and "y'all." She also tells stories. She loves fairy tales, and folklore, and stories that make her wonder if the world is really as it seems. To learn more about Victoria Schwab and her books, visit her website.You can also find her on Goodreads, Facebook, Tumblr, YouTube, Pinterest, and Twitter.

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