16. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

T he first traces of dawn filtered through the shattered windows of Jonathan’s guest quarters, casting eerie shadows across the room. He stirred fitfully in his bed, caught in the throes of a nightmare he couldn’t quite grasp. In his dreams, he heard the Count’s voice, a ghostly whisper that made his blood run cold: “Forget, but remember that I am a monster .”

As consciousness slowly returned, he became aware of phantom pains in his shoulder and backside. He winced, his hand instinctively moving to the spots where he felt he had been bitten. But when his fingers probed the areas, they found only smooth, unbroken skin.

Confusion clouded his mind as he tried to piece together everything that happened the night before. Fragmented memories flashed before his eyes - passion, sweaty naked flesh against flesh, rough and animalistic lovemaking, the Count transforming into some kind of… beast. But surely, these were just dreams? Feverish imaginings brought on by the strange atmosphere of the castle?

He tried to recall how he ended up in his bed. He remembered drinking and wandering the maze, and then, and then…perhaps he had drunk too much and managed to stumble his way to his room by the grace of luck.

But why does his lips feel the impression of another? Why the sharp pains around his inner thighs? And his ass was still wrapped around the Count’s phantom cock.

Most importantly, why did he feel rejected, pushed away by the very object of his desire?

His head throbbed as he questioned his own sanity. Had the Count truly ravished him until he was destroyed? Or was his mind simply conjuring these fantastical scenarios to cope with his forbidden longings? Whatever the case, he couldn’t shake the growing sense of dread that told him he must flee this place before he lost himself completely.

But would losing himself be such a terrible outcome? He was beginning to feel at home here, even finding comfort in the howling of wolves at night. For the first time in his life, he had felt accepted amongst the strange and outcast beings of this inner world. He even wandered the grounds alone at night without fear.

But now, that sense of comfort had been shattered. Something terrible must have happened, something involving the Count, but the details eluded him. The more he tried to recall what happened the night before, the more they slipped away like wisps of smoke.

With growing certainty, Jonathan concluded that Dracula must be a devil, a creature of darkness sent to tempt and destroy him. The thought spurred him into action. He had to leave Transylvania to escape this madness before it consumed him entirely! The more he thought about it, the more anxious he began to feel each second that he was not working toward that goal.

He attempted to rise from the bed. His movements were so sluggish he accidentally knocked over a glass on the bedside table. It shattered on the floor, scattering shards across the polished wood.

Startled by the noise, Jonathan scrambled from the bed, only to cry out in pain as a shard of glass sliced into his foot. The sharp sting triggered another flash of memory - a bed soaked with blood, his blood. Fear gripped him as he pulled the glass free, his trembling hands leaving bloody smears on the sheets.

Ignoring the pain, he stumbled towards his luggage, leaving a trail of bloody footprints in his wake. His body protested with every movement, but the need to escape overrode all physical discomfort.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Jonathan was taken aback by his own appearance. His reddening, puffy eyes were hollow, sunken into a face pale as death, and tear stains marked his cheeks. ‘What the hell is wrong with me? Am I dying?’

“An abomination...” he muttered under his trembling breath, echoing words he had heard in his dreams. The phrase, spoken in Dracula’s voice, shook him entirely. He had witnessed things utterly impossible, terrifying - if only he could fully remember!

One sensation suddenly stood out as vividly as if it were happening at that moment - the electrifying touch of Dracula’s lips against his own. A kiss that had sent him into an almost primal passion he never wanted to let go of.

“No!” Jonathan squeezed his brow. “The Count will kill me…I—I know it…I must leave here!”

He grabbed his clothes, stuffing them haphazardly into his luggage, his head pounding with each movement; he tried once more to piece together the dream. The smell of wine lingered in his nostrils. “That explains the headache,” he muttered, grasping at this small bit of rational explanation.

But even as he clung to this mundane justification, darker thoughts plagued him. What if Dracula truly was in league with the devil? What if Jonathan’s growing comfort in the castle, even his attraction to the Count, were signs of his own inherent evil? Perhaps the “curse” of homosexuality was proof that he, too, was born wicked.

He recalled his father’s booming voice as he declared, “You’re no son of mine! Leave this house and never return!”

For a moment, he was back in his childhood bedroom, packing up his clothes just as frantically as he was now. The rejection stung just as deeply. Back then, he was afraid because he had no place to go and no means to care for himself. Now, this fear was different. Deep inside, he felt as if these were not his true feelings, but he couldn’t help but be driven by them.

He finished packing and stood in the center of his guest room, luggage in hand, poised on the precipice of flight. Behind him lay broken glass, bloodstains, and the tattered remnants of his former self. Ahead, the unknown - a world he never felt he belonged to, but one he must return to nonetheless.

As the sun continued its inexorable rise over the Carpathian peaks, Castle Dracula seemed to exhale a collective breath, as if rousing from its own shroud of nightly secrets. The quiet was shattered by a booming rap at Jonathan’s chamber door.

“Master Harker? I must speak with you at once!” came the insistent voice of Vigo, the Count’s trusted manservant.

Jonathan flinched, his heart racing. He couldn’t bear the thought of facing Dracula again.

“G-go away!” he cried out, his voice cracking. “I’ll not be made a party to whatever devilry plagues this damned place!”

There was a pause, then the sound of the door’s lock turning. Vigo shouldered his way inside with remarkable strength for one so aged, his beady eyes studying Jonathan with an inscrutable gaze.

The old servant’s gaze immediately fell to the trail of blood on the floor, then to Jonathan’s cut foot. Without a word, he produced a tray of bandages from seemingly nowhere.

“Back to bed with you, Master Harker,” Vigo said firmly, guiding Jonathan to place the luggage down and sit on the edge of the mattress. He began to clean the wounds while speaking in a low urgent tone. “I’m afraid you misunderstand the circumstances at play here, young sir. The Count is not himself... he has not been for some time. And after last night... please, do not listen to the Count’s advice to flee. You must remain. You are perhaps the only one who can help me.”

Jonathan’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing with weary suspicion. “Help you?” He shook his head vehemently. “I want no part of this place. Not anymore! Don’t you understand that this place is evil, and the Count...”

He trailed off, his head beginning to throb as flashes of memory assaulted him - him pleading with Dracula not to let him go, a desperate, passionate embrace. Confusion warred with fear in his mind.

Vigo sighed heavily. “I wish my master wasn’t so stubborn. He should never have toyed with your memory and emotions of last night.”

“What?” Jonathan’s voice rose in panic. “What did the Count do to me?!”

Vigo’s hands stilled in their work, his eyes meeting Jonathan’s with a mix of sympathy and resolve. “I cannot betray my Master, but know this - the suggestion to flee, the fear you feel, these are merely planted in your mind. Your true desire is to remain by the Count’s side. Please believe me. I understand how confusing this must be, but I beg you not to give in to the suggestion. As powerful as it is, you must fight it! You must remain and see this through.”

Jonathan’s mind reeled. He remembered feeling an overwhelming sadness, begging the Count to return to him. A tear slid down his cheek as the emotion overtook the pain. “I must leave,” he whispered. “Even if I can’t remember what happened. I’m afraid of what will happen to me if I remain.”

The old man arched one bushy eyebrow in an infuriatingly calm response. “And go where, pray? Back to the life of denial and falsehoods that were already suffocating your spirit before you came here? You cannot unsee what has been shown to you, nor undo the truth you’ve had the courage to finally embrac--”

“ENOUGH!” Jonathan shouted, his voice nearly cracking. “Just... leave me be. Please...”

His face sank back into his hands, shoulders slumped in dejection and fatigue. After a pregnant pause, Vigo let out a world-weary sigh.

“As you wish, sir. Leave for London and rot in that city if you must. The path before you leads only to tragedy and regret, I promise.” He paused at the threshold, his voice softening. “Should you find your purpose again... the purpose that gave you the courage to embrace my master... You know where to seek me out.”

With that, the wizened servant took his leave, the heavy door creaking shut behind him and sealing Jonathan’s private sanctum of misery once more.

Try as he might to descend back into blissful unawareness, Jonathan couldn’t shake the disquieting sense that Vigo was right.

What was waiting for him back in London? A prop marriage and a society of watchful eyes everywhere. The thought of returning to that life of denial and pretense suddenly seemed suffocating.

Was Vigo’s desperate plea for aid some parlor trick, or the key to making sense of the madness?

With a cry of frustration, he flung his clothes across the room, watching as they scattered like the broken pieces of his former life. He slumped onto the bed, his mind whirling with conflicting emotions and half-formed memories.

Was he truly now a man caught between two worlds? The familiar, stifling safety of his old life in London and the dangerous, intoxicating freedom he had tasted here in Transylvania.

Vigo’s words echoed in his mind: “You cannot unsee what has been shown to you.” It was true. Even if he returned to London and married Lucy and played the part of the respectable gentleman, he would always know the truth about himself. He would always remember the electrifying touch of Dracula’s lips, the passion that had awakened something long dormant within him. Was it Dracula he was now afraid of, or himself?

But to stay... to embrace this new self fully... The risks were enormous. Jonathan thought of the strange, supernatural occurrences he had witnessed, the gaps in his memory, and the fear that still lingered at the edges of his consciousness.

He closed his eyes, trying to sort through the jumble of emotions and memories. There was fear, yes, but also an undeniable longing. He remembered the comfort he had found in this place, the sense of belonging he had never experienced before.

And then there was Dracula himself. Despite the confusion and fear, Jonathan couldn’t deny the pull he felt towards the enigmatic Count. There was a connection there, something deep and primal that defied explanation.

He slipped on his shoes and painfully stood before limping toward his luggage and began repacking the fallen clothes. His mind was made up. He would flee.