7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

T he heavy doors of Castle Dracula creaked open of their own accord, revealing a cavernous entryway that seemed to swallow all light. Jonathan Harker hesitated on the threshold, his heart pounding. Gathering his courage, he called out a greeting, but the oppressive gloom swallowed his voice.

Steeling himself, Jonathan stepped inside. The castle’s interior was where dread and neglect intertwined with a dark, gothic beauty. Massive stone arches soared overhead, their intricate carvings barely visible in the dim light. Tattered tapestries adorned the walls. Their once-vibrant colors faded to muted shades of blood and shadow. Ornate candelabras stood sentinel along the walls, their candles long since burned out, leaving only twisted wax sculptures in their wake.

The air was heavy with the scent of age - musty stone, decaying wood, and something metallic and vaguely unpleasant that Jonathan couldn’t quite place. Dust motes danced in the few shafts of moonlight that penetrated the gloom, giving the entire scene an ethereal, dreamlike quality. Was even this place a dream? Perhaps he would wake up in his bed back in London with Béla nestled by his side and taking up half the bed.

A silken voice resonated from the shadows, its timbre rich and alluring. “Welcome, Mr. Harker.” The words caressed Jonathan’s skin.

A figure emerged from the darkness, cutting an imposing silhouette against the faint light from the open doorway. As he stepped into a shaft of moonlight, Jonathan found himself face to face with Count Dracula.

The Count was tall, easily towering over Jonathan by several inches. His frame was lean yet powerful, draped in elegantly tailored clothing that spoke of wealth and refinement but was certainly outdated for these times. A high-collared cloak hung from his broad shoulders, its inky blackness absorbing the light around it.

But it was Dracula’s face that truly captured Jonathan’s attention. The Count possessed an unusual, ageless beauty that defied description. His features were sharply aristocratic - high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and an aquiline nose that spoke of noble lineage. His skin was pale, almost luminescent in the moonlight, unmarred by any sign of age or imperfection.

Dracula’s eyes, however, truly arrested Jonathan’s gaze. They were dark, unfathomably so, like wells of midnight that seemed to hold centuries of knowledge and secrets. There was an intensity to his stare that simultaneously unnerved and bewitched, as if the Count were attempting to unravel Jonathan’s essence with a single look.

He was like an unearthed archaeological wonder. Jonathan wanted to dress him in the styles of Victoria’s London and parade him through the streets for all to gaze at. Such a man as him shouldn’t be cooped up in this dusty, albeit beautiful home far from proper civilization.

As Jonathan stepped further into the light, he noticed a curious change in the Count’s expression. For a brief moment, Dracula’s carefully composed features faltered, his eyes widening in what could only be described as shock.

Unbeknownst to Jonathan, Dracula was experiencing a maelstrom of emotions. The Count’s breath caught in his throat as he beheld the young solicitor fully for the first time. Before him stood a vision from the past - a face he had thought lost to the annals of time.

Jonathan Harker was the very image of youth and vitality. His skin was fair, with a healthy flush that spoke of his recent journey. Dark hair, slightly tousled from travel, fell in soft waves around a face that the finest Renaissance artists could have sculpted. His eyes were a clear, piercing blue - the color of a summer sky, full of innocence and curiosity.

But it was more than just physical beauty that struck Dracula. There was something in the set of Jonathan’s jaw, the curve of his lips, the way he held himself - all of it achingly familiar.

Dracula bit his lip until blood formed, the sharp pain helping to stave off his overwhelming desire to take Jonathan, to ravish him then and there. The Count had to remind himself that this man merely bore his beloved’s striking visage. It might not truly be him reincarnated, no matter how desperately Dracula wished it to be so.

Memories flooded the Count’s mind - of that demon’s promise on a blood-soaked battlefield, of centuries spent searching for a face, a soul he had thought lost forever. How many times had he been disappointed? How many young men, bearing some resemblance to his Béla, had he lured to this castle, only to discover they were mere shadows of his lost love?

Dracula’s thoughts turned dark. He was sure that this young man, just like the others, would meet his end within these walls. Every man who bore even a passing resemblance to Béla was brought here, tested to see if his love’s soul resided within. And when it inevitably proved not to be so, Dracula would drain them, granting them an easy death. Those foolish enough to insult him found a far worse fate - becoming fodder for his “children.”

And the ones he liked...well...he didn't want to think of the fate that befell them.

Yet, looking at Jonathan, Dracula felt a flicker of something he had thought long extinguished - hope. This one was different. The resemblance was uncanny, more perfect than any he had seen before. Could it be possible that his search would finally end after all this time?

Oblivious to the tumultuous thoughts racing through the Count’s mind, Jonathan shyly turned away from Dracula’s penetrating gaze. He was clearly affected by the aristocrat’s intense presence, a fact that did not go unnoticed by his host.

“You’ve had a trying journey, no doubt,” The Count observed, his deep, richly accented baritone reverberating through Jonathan’s very bones. “Please, allow me to ensure that you will want for nothing within these walls.”

As he spoke, Dracula’s gaze dropped briefly to Jonathan’s lips, causing the solicitor to subconsciously wet them with a nervous dart of his tongue. An infinitesimal smirk played across the Count’s features - he was distinctly aware of the desirous effect he was having on his guest.

Jonathan struggled to form coherent thoughts. Something about the Count both thrilled and terrified him. It was as if Dracula’s presence awoke something deep within him, primal and hungry, that he had long kept buried.

‘Get ahold of yourself, Harker,’ Jonathan chided himself internally. ‘You’re here on business, not to moon over your client like some lovesick schoolboy.’ Yet even as he thought this, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing figure before him.

Dracula extended a hand to Jonathan, his movements almost hypnotic. “I must confess, I’ve become quite accomplished at making my guests... comfortable.” The loaded statement hung heavy between them, its suggestive undertones raising the hairs on Jonathan’s neck.

For a moment, time stood still. Jonathan was on the precipice of something monumental, though he couldn’t have said what. Every instinct screamed at him to flee this place and never look back. Yet something deeper, more primal, urged him forward.

As Jonathan reached out to take the Count’s offered hand, a wolf howled in the distance, echoing through the castle’s vast halls. The moment shattered, and Jonathan pulled back, suddenly aware of how close he had come to... what, exactly?

Dracula’s expression flickered for a moment - disappointment? Anger? - before settling back into a mask of aristocratic politeness. “Come,” he said, gesturing towards a dimly lit corridor. “You must be famished after your journey. I’ve had a light supper prepared in the library.”

As they walked, Jonathan couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being tested, though he couldn’t say whether he had passed or failed. The Count’s presence loomed large beside him, a palpable force that seemed to draw him in even as it repelled him.

For his part, Dracula was lost in thought. This Jonathan Harker was proving to be more intriguing than he had anticipated. There was a fire in the young man, carefully banked but unmistakable. It reminded him so much of his Béla that it was almost painful.

As they entered the library, flickering firelight cast dancing shadows across the walls. Jonathan gasped at the sheer number of books lining the shelves—more volumes than he had ever seen in one place outside of the great universities.

Dracula smiled, pleased by his guest’s reaction. “Knowledge is power, Mr. Harker,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “And I have had a very long time to accumulate both.”

Jonathan turned to face his host, a question forming on his lips. But as he met Dracula’s intense gaze, the words died in his throat. There was hunger in those eyes, a desire far beyond the physical realm.

As Dracula guided him to a seat at the table, his hand lingering perhaps a moment too long on Jonathan’s lower back, the young solicitor couldn’t help but wonder what he had gotten into. More troublingly, why was a part of him thrilled by the prospect?

The library door closed behind them with a soft click, sealing them in together. Outside, the wolves continued their mournful song, a fitting accompaniment to the dangerous dance about to begin.