17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

T he rickety mail coach jostled and swayed along the rutted forest trail leading away from Dracula’s estate. Jonathan Harker sat alone in the cramped compartment, his body tense and his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. He knew he was running away, but the alternative was just as frightening. Facing the realization that something had transpired between himself and Dracula, and from what little he understood, Dracula was rejecting him or perhaps protecting him.

With each passing mile, he felt layers of dread and unease sloughing off like dead skin after a fevered delirium. Yet, a nagging doubt persisted - had fleeing been the right decision? Would he regret this decision forever?

Strange as it seemed, he had already missed the Count, even though he hadn’t yet left Transylvania. He was wise and so elegant, so unlike himself, according to Jonathan. One night, he had caught the Count lounging in his library window, and the two talked about history until the sun made itself known. Or more like the Count talked, and Jonathan was so mesmerized by his knowledge that he couldn’t stop asking him question after question, to which the Count indulged. He had forgotten that he was supposed to play the role of the well-educated man of society, and it was one of the ways he felt at ease here.

He had come from a decent enough background; his father worked hard to ensure he received a good education. He was an investment beyond what his father could completely afford. He was supposed to socialize with the upper class, secure a lucrative job, and marry into wealth—the retirement plan of his parents. And he had ruined that by being caught with the son of the help. The two boys had barely had a chance to do anything, just fumbling hands touching intimate parts on a hot summer day. A small act, and yet enough for his father to toss him on the street before his eighteenth birthday.

His education was the only good thing his father had ever given him, and he put it to good enough use, working his way up until he was able to co-invest in his real estate company. To society, he was a young, handsome, educated man, and he did well keeping up that appearance. It was how he met and befriended Lucy. But here, he hadn’t thought of that once. He was happy to learn from the Count, yet in the quiet moments when the Count wasn’t aware of his presence, Jonathan would catch him gazing out into the night, his dark eyes blanketed with sadness. Jonathan felt like he had only scratched the surface of the enigmatic man.

He peered out the carriage window, drinking in the picturesque countryside. Babbling brooks meandered through verdant hillsides speckled with vibrant wildflowers. Simple peasant folk went about their bucolic lives, a world away from the festering darkness he’d fled.

As the carriage rolled on, Jonathan became acutely aware of his surroundings. The sound of water seemed to fill the carriage, as clear as if he were standing beside the streams they passed. The scent of wildflowers wafted through the air, their fragrance impossibly strong and sweet. The day itself seemed saturated with light, colors more vivid than he’d ever experienced.

Jonathan’s brow furrowed in confusion. He had flashes of memory - the taste of something metallic yet sweet lingering on his tongue, the tingle of wounds mending. He shook his head, trying to dispel the strange sensations.

In his lap lay a folded piece of parchment - a hastily penned letter resigning from the Carfax deed assignment. He had quite literally washed his hands of the entire damned affair.

He closed his eyes to stave off the overwhelm of his senses, and a tremor coursed through him as memories of that fateful night threatened to resurface. Dracula’s inhuman visage, his body covered in fur like a wolf, the scorching embrace that had awakened Jonathan’s long-suppressed desires. He gritted his teeth, wrestling such ghastly recollections back into the deepest recesses of his mind. He tried to convince himself it had all been a dream, though the lingering soreness in his body suggested otherwise.

Whatever profane forces he had brushed up against in that place, he wanted no part of them. Not anymore. At least, that’s what he told himself, even as doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve.

The carriage finally slowed to a halt in a quaint village square. Jonathan disembarked, his legs unsteady after the long journey. He made his way to the local inn, a rustic two-story building with weathered wooden beams and a thatched roof. A hand-painted sign depicting a rearing stag swung gently in the breeze.

Inside, the inn was a far cry from the opulent luxury of Castle Dracula. Low ceilings were crisscrossed with dark wooden beams, and the air was thick with the scent of pipe smoke and ale.

Jonathan secured a modest room for the night and made his way to the tavern. A few stiff belts of brandy, he reasoned, was just what he needed.

He settled at the bar, grateful for the din of workers and tradesmen providing a firm tether to reality. The brandy burned pleasantly as it went down, and Jonathan began to feel the tension in his shoulders ease.

That is, until an ominous presence slid onto the stool beside him.

The newcomer was an older man, perhaps in his sixties, with a lined face that spoke of both wisdom and weariness. His white hair and full beard were neatly trimmed, giving him an air of scholarly respectability. But it was his eyes that caught Jonathan’s attention - piercing blue orbs that seemed to look right through him as if peering into the very depths of his soul.

The man was dressed in a well-worn tweed suit, a far cry from the local attire. A heavy crucifix hung around his neck, glinting in the dim tavern light. When he spoke, his accent was unmistakably Dutch.

“Good evening, Mr. Harker,” the stranger said, his voice low and grave. “I believe we have much to discuss about your recent... experiences.”

Jonathan’s blood ran cold. How did this man know his name? And what could he possibly know about what had transpired at Castle Dracula?

As the stranger signaled the barkeep for a drink, Jonathan found himself frozen in place, caught between the urge to flee once more and an inexplicable compulsion to hear what this mysterious man had to say.

“You’ve had... dealings with the Count recently,” rumbled a gravelly voice. Jonathan turned to find a grizzled, intense-looking stranger appraising him from beneath a low, wide-brimmed hat.

The man’s next words were laced with grim portent. “Did you bear witness to any peculiarities while working in that decrepit mausoleum? Anything that defies the laws of nature?”

Jonathan instinctively bristled, his gut clenching with anxiety. “I’m afraid you’re quite mistaken. My business has concluded, nothing furth--”

“I was once a doctor,” the mystery man interrupted, his piercing gaze never wavering. “One night, a patient came to me exhibiting extremely unusual symptoms - severe anemia, allergic reactions to sacred objects and rituals, and what appeared to be bite marks on their neck.”

Jonathan’s hand unconsciously moved to his own neck, remembering phantom pains.

The stranger continued, “Despite my medical training, no clinical explanations could account for this disturbing array of ailments. I began digging into ancient texts and superstitions, eventually becoming convinced my patient was suffering from a rare, unclassified condition known in Slavic folklore as ‘vampirism.’”

Jonathan shivered at the word.

“After my wife…I traced the origins here to Transylvania,” the man said, his voice low. “The Count himself is the primordial source, a vampiric plague bearer. The only reason I’m speaking to you and not driving a stake into your chest is because you clearly remain uncorrupted. No one remains uncorrupted after coming from that castle. I want to know why he spared you.”

Jonathan shook his head, overwhelmed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man introduced himself as Van Helsing, a name that meant nothing to Jonathan. “Please,” Jonathan pleaded, “leave me alone to enjoy my drink in peace.”

Van Helsing’s expression softened slightly. He reached into his coat and produced a worn leather-bound book. “Look up and read on vampyres,” he said, sliding the tome across the bar. “It will tell you all you need to know about your host.”

With that, Van Helsing stood and left, leaving Jonathan alone with his thoughts and the mysterious book.

Later that night, Jonathan retreated to his room above the tavern. It was a far cry from the spacious chambers of Castle Dracula—small and cramped, with rough-hewn wooden walls and a single narrow window. A creaky iron bed frame adorned with a threadbare quilt occupied most of the space. A small writing desk and chair stood in one corner while a chipped ceramic washbasin rested on a rickety stand.

Despite his exhaustion, sleep eluded Jonathan. This man, Van Helsing, his words echoed in his mind, intertwining with fragmented memories of his time at the castle. Unable to rest. He lit the stubby candle on the bedside table and opened the book that old man had given him.

Turning to the chapter on vampyres, Jonathan read with growing unease. The creatures described within were beautiful men and women who hungered for blood, could shapeshift into other creatures of darkness, and were immortal. They were portrayed as lacking morals, seducers, and killers of the innocent. He thought of that night in Paris, that beautiful man who led him to the tents, the hands that slid all over him. Dracula’s own hands caressing his naked, sweaty skin.

One passage, in particular, caught his attention - a reference to vampyres’ ability to alter memories. Jonathan’s heart raced as he wondered if he and the Count had truly made love, or if his memories had been tampered with. And that night in Paris? Was that real as well? He recalled the wolf-like man he had seen in London before taking this job and then seeing him again in Paris. Were they all connected to the Count? How long had he been watching him, and for what reason?

Jonathan slammed the book shut and took a deep breath. He was losing his grip on reality! Finally, exhaustion claimed him, and he fell into a fitful sleep.

In his dreams, Jonathan found himself transported to another time and place. He watched, as if from afar, as two figures stole away from a military encampment under the cover of night. With a start, he recognized one as a younger Dracula; his face was less haunted, and his eyes were alight with a passion that took his breath away.

The other man - Béla, Jonathan somehow knew - was tall and lithe, with a shock of dark hair and eyes that sparkled with mischief and love. They moved swiftly and silently through the forest, their hands clasped tightly together.

Finally, they reached a secluded glade, bathed in moonlight. Without a word, Dracula pulled Béla close, their lips meeting in a kiss that spoke of longing. Hands roamed over bodies, urgently removing layers of clothing until they stood bare before each other, vulnerable and unashamed.

Their lovemaking was intense and passionate. Dracula’s lips traced the contours of Béla’s body, worshipping every inch of skin as if it might be the last time. Béla’s fingers tangled in Dracula’s black hair, pulling him closer, deeper.

They moved together, their bodies intertwined in the soft grass. Jonathan felt jealous and aroused watching the pair. He could feel Dracula’s desperation, his fear of losing Béla, and his desire to freeze this moment in time forever.

The dream dissolved, and Jonathan felt a profound sadness, a longing for something he couldn’t quite grasp. He mourned for Dracula and Béla; even as he felt a pang of jealousy, he still mourned for the love they had shared and lost. He grieved for his own decision to leave the castle and turn his back on the connection, however small he had felt with Dracula.

How could he feel such sorrow for leaving a man he also feared? How could he yearn for a love he had never truly experienced?

As Jonathan drifted in and out of consciousness, tears staining his pillow, he grappled with the realization that he might never know a love as deep and all-consuming as what he had witnessed in his dream. Societal expectations, the fear of his own desires, and the terrifying reality of what Dracula truly was all pressed down upon him, threatening to crush his spirit entirely.