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Chapter Text

Jonathan's flight lands in Bucharest a full forty minutes ahead of schedule, leaving him plenty of time, once he's got through customs and collected his luggage, to peruse the airport shop.

It's scant pickings compared to Heathrow—but there are a few shelves' worth of both genuine and mass-made folk art, patterned mugs and embroidered scarves, and the little wooden figurine of what is either a demon or a very ugly baby he selects from a troop of such characters.

He sets this down on the check-out counter, along with a handful of postcards and bar of chocolate, and pulls his travelers' phrasebook from his pocket. "Do you accept credit cards?" he asks in halting Romanian, and evidently it's clear enough for the woman working the register to catch his meaning.

"Visa, MasterCard, American Express," she tells him, a shrewd smile sharpening her grandmotherly features. "You are English?"

Jonathan smiles back. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yes," she says, scanning the postcards – Castles of Romania, Mountains of Romania, Delicacies of Romania, Traditional Dress of Romania – followed by the chocolate and, with obvious distaste, the figurine.

Jonathan grimaces, feeling compelled to explain himself. "It's for my fian—er. A friend who's been kind enough to look after my cat while I'm away, and she has a—well, a fascination with monster stories and the like—"

"Vlkoslak. Do you understand this term?"

"I'm afraid not."

The woman takes a moment to consider her words. And then: "A vampire, as have been known in these lands for centuries. Many will now say it is only the old ways. That it is—superstition." She shakes her head. "No."

"Right," Jonathan says, sympathetically, but he's had enough experience being on the receiving-end of a lecture that he can detect one coming on. Out of impulse, he checks his watch—and then checks it again, but yes, he already set it forward to the local time. "No, of course not."

"You are here on business?"

"Oh," he says, glad to be back on familiar territory. "Yes. I'm a lawyer. You see, I've come here from London to conduct a real estate transaction on behalf of my firm."

The woman gives him a puzzled expression. "This could not be done via fax machine?"

"Or better yet, a lovely new invention known as the world wide web," Jonathan agrees, hunching over the counter to sign the carbon paper payment slip, and accepting his bagged purchases with a nod. Internet, indeed: he hadn't been able to confirm that his final destination – one Castle Dracula, per the brief itinerary prepared for him by his office – even had the telephone service he'd need to dial up, and of course his mobile had gone into roaming mode the moment he'd left England and—

"You will take care, Jonathan Harker."

Jonathan startles to hear his full name, but then realizes the woman must have read it on his credit card. Of course. "Thank you," he says. And then, reluctantly meeting her eye: "I will."

Chapter Text

It's... cold But this doesn't bother Jonathan overmuch, nor does the near-darkness prove difficult to navigate—

After all, it's a straight line. A hallway of incomprehensible length, lit by infrequent torches, locked door after locked door—

Ah. Here we are: the one that opens. And Jonathan knows this mammoth plane of carved mahogany, the intricate whorls and curving streaks which in the gloom take on the shade of fresh blood—how they mimic the throb of a heartbeat in the flickering light—and how sweetly one might find oneself lost in their depths—

"Sir?"

Jonathan jolts to consciousness, blinking about himself – train to Bistrița—he's on the overnight train from Bucharest to Bistrița – taking in the seat back before him, the window beside, and lastly the railway steward looming above. "Um. Yes?" he manages, finally.

The steward makes an apologetic gesture. "I'm sorry to wake you, sir, but I must inform you that the dining car is about to close, so if you wish to—"

"Oh!" says Jonathan. "Yes, thank you, I hadn't realized..." How long had he been asleep? He'd only meant to rest his eyes for a moment—he looks down to see the complete contents of his folio spilled out all over the floor. Fuck. If he'd gone and lost even a single bloody page—

He sucks in a steadying breath. "Thank you. I'll not be a moment."

The steward nods, and it seems that he's on the verge of saying something else, but then he turns away. Jonathan watches him for another beat before settling in to see what sorts of interesting things might now be stuck to his contract forms.

While he works, his mind drifts back to the dream he'd been having before the steward woke him—and it's the damnedest thing, but the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end at the thought of what might have been behind that door.

In the soft voice of his analyst, he thinks, Perhaps best explained by a lifetime of societal and self-imposed sexual repression, because that's just the answer to everything, isn't it?

A thumbnail portrait of Jonathan Harker: bespectacled and thin and ginger and thirty-three, barely scraping by as a junior partner in the London satellite office of Exeter's second-best real estate firm—and yes, lest we forget: lately split from his childhood sweetheart-slash-fiance because he's—he's—

Damn. Chewing gum on the second appendix sheet. He'll have to find a way to reprint it—surely his lordship must have some technology at the ready—but then again, he's blowing twenty million pounds on a middling plot of land when anyone in their right mind would invest in something right in town, derelict abbey on the premises or no.

*

By the time Jonathan sits for dinner, the only thing left on offer is paprika hendl. He hesitates, normally avoidant of anything spicier than a Tesco chicken tikka sandwich.

But the scent rising from the rich, ruddy broth is nothing short of heavenly.

Chapter Text

If Jonathan had imagined the most unlikely mode of transport to be waiting for him at the city's central railway station, it would not have been this: an immaculately preserved mid-century Mercedes Benz limousine, all polished trim and gleaming planes—solid black save for the elaborate coat of arms painted on the door, and a plush interior done up in deep red velvet. Simply put: delicious.

And if Jonathan had imagined the sort of person who might be employed to drive such a vehicle—Well. He might have got a bit closer: at least a head taller than Jonathan himself and impressively large everywhere else, the man is likewise outfitted all in black, with a muffler pulled over the lower half of his face and a wool cap angled down from his brow, and a pair of what are unmistakably Ray Ban sunglasses peeking out from between them, giving the overall suggestion that he might be anyone at all, up to and including a henchman to one of James Bond's more formidable baddies.

Right. Which would make Jonathan who, exactly? The very thought of someone as ordinary as him being involved in anything more exciting than a traffic delay on the M25 is so plainly absurd that he can't even muster a roll of his eyes—not that they aren't already engaged, gawking at the impressive swiftness with which the driver is attending to his bags.

Hell, the man's as strong as a bloody bear. Upon first seeing his itinerary, Jonathan had briefly worried about the possibility of encountering vagrants en route from Bistrița to the castle—a notion based purely on limited knowledge of the region that he'd been glad to dismiss as far-fetched. And now he knows his lordship – Count Dracula, his client and soon-to-be-host, he thrills to recall – has indeed left him in competent hands.

At last Jonathan minds his manners, in Romanian, and then again: "Thank you."

The driver nods silently and opens the rear door and sets a gloved hand to the small of Jonathan's back, guiding him inside, and then just as it's closing behind him again, Jonathan catches the driver's gaze over the rims of his sunglasses—

Oh. What in the name of—his eyes—his eyes are glowing red—

Holding Jonathan in their sway like a fly in a dollop of treacle—

No. No, that's absurd. A trick of the mind akin to deja vu; a side effect of a full day of traveling; not enough sleep and not enough food and too many cups of bitter tea. And then again – the limousine pulls away from the curb and starts forward – it was only a reflection of the rising sun.

It's in this way that Jonathan gets his first true glimpse of the world outside, just as it's waking up—the city's many red-roofed buildings giving way to countryside giving way to deep, unfathomable woods and gradual ascent into the mountains.

There's nothing to worry about whatsoever: the driver knows the way.

Chapter Text

A wolf.

There's a wolf—a great big bloody wolf—standing right outside Jonathan's car door.

The limousine is stopped at the side of the road, shadowed by the towering pine trees, and indeed the world itself seems cast into gloomy, blue-black dusk despite it not being much past mid-morning. Jonathan adjusts his glasses and tries to make out anything around him that might indicate his current whereabouts other than, the middle of the fucking woods.

Oh yes: and the driver is nowhere to be seen.

Jonathan had only realized he'd been asleep—

—the hallway, the door, and whatever waited beyond: that damned dream again—

—when he woke to find himself alone – save for the wolf! – and he's presently rummaging through his satchel for his mobile phone. He knows it won't work, but he still has to try—

So he sucks in a breath. And then he thumbs it on.

The pale green screen flickers to life, searching for a few moments before confirming: NO SERVICE.

"Damn," he whispers, his stomach clenching even as he tells himself this: everything will be fine. The driver was most certainly not caught unawares by a pack of beasts whilst having a piss by the car, dragged into the woods, and promptly eaten, and the wolf outside – a gargantuan thing with eyes as sharp as cut glass and a thick coat the color of blackest night – was most certainly not waiting for Jonathan to give in to a similarly gristly fate.

An hour passes like this.

Some twenty minutes ago, the wolf finally settled down, and by now seems to actually have dozed off. Jonathan's been waiting for this moment—for how else might he escape the vehicle undetected?

But now the idea seems foolish. The car is safe. The car has a door on the opposite side from his sleeping friend, and a window he can roll down and dangle himself out of—and banging on its side with the flat of his hand is terrifically satisfying.

"Hello!" he calls out. And then again, louder: "Hello? Driver? Give a signal if you can hear me!"

Jonathan's blood roars in his ears. He's not panicking. He can't—not now—

"Is there anyone out there?"

Oh. It would be a wolf – and then another, and another – who would answer him. Their chorus sends a tremor down his spine, and he's filled with such an incredible feeling of dread that he's as good as frozen in his seat, and even the sudden reemergence of the driver several meters ahead down the road – unhurried yet purposeful – can't shake Jonathan into spilling the mouthful of insults he's been saving for this moment.

The man doesn't say a word as he returns the key to the ignition and turns it—not where he's been or what he's done, or why the hell the creature Jonathan's just been fretting himself grey over is now occupying the front passenger seat, its huge head resting on its huge paws, perfectly at home.

Chapter Text

There are some who might say, "If you've seen one castle, you've seen them all."

Not so Jonathan Harker.

It started in childhood, when he'd spent many a rainy Sunday – and a good few sunny Saturdays besides – learning everything he could about the types and eras and purposes and whereabouts of first the castles of England, then Europe, and then the world—

For nowhere seemed farther from the place he called home: an aging mid-terrace in Exeter, with his Gran and her small, yappy mutt who, upon Jonathan coming to stay, became his constant companion.

To his child's mind, nowhere but a castle seemed so permanent. So safe.

And this unlikely fancy persisted through his adolescence, when he dragged his Gran all over the county to visit every castle, ruin, and historical site; a brief but intense membership in a D&D group; the summer hols during university he'd spent as a ticket-taker at the Tower of London; up until now, and the wall in his tatty apartment that's made a bit less so by the fine art print of Tolkien's own watercolor Minas Tirith.

Yet from the scant research Jonathan's managed, Castle Dracula may surpass them all.

The thought bolsters him through the remainder of the drive, once he admits he's been letting his imagination get the better of him, fucking again, and it's only an enormous dog presently riding shotgun, emerald eyes drooped to slits as the driver strokes his free hand behind its ears.

By now, tucked into in the plush cab of the Mercedes, Jonathan has been lulled into a sense of drifting vertigo. How deep and dark these woods are; how high and thick their canopy...

And then: "My god," Jonathan gasps, despite himself, well and truly awed by the rise of Castle Dracula from the raw mountainside. Majestic, ancient. Vetruvius' dying vision rendered material; a hulking beast of a structure behind its great iron gate, set at the end of the serpentine road where the driver deposits Jonathan, along with his bags, at the foot of the staircase.

Er. Is he supposed to just knock? The rings set into the huge doors gleam invitingly, so he approaches, slowly raising a hand—

Only for the left-side door to swing open, revealing a wide room cast golden in the glow of the fireplace, as well as the antler chandelier lit with candles of fragrant beeswax. And at the center of the hall: a long, wooden table positively groaning with food.

Roasted meats and loaves of bread, cheeses in a veritable rainbow of hues, bowls of fruit and nuts, and several bottles of red wine with a glass already poured, and Jonathan comes to the rather abrupt realization that he hasn't had anything to eat since the tea and biscuits he'd downed back at the train station, and he's absolutely famished—

And then, a figure on the staircase above, smiling down at him: "Welcome," says the Count, for it can be no one else, "to my home."

Chapter Text

"Cheers," says Jonathan, before he can stop himself; and it's a half-gasped thing, through slackened features, his brain apparently having decided to settle on 'dumbfounded' for the duration.

Because hell, to see the Count you'd never guess he was more than sixty-five, though Jonathan's reviewed his client profile and knows him to be over eighty. He descends the stairs with utmost confidence, studying his guest with piercing dark eyes set below full brows, the silver not wholly overtaking the black in his neatly trimmed beard, nor the shoulder-length hair tied back at his nape.

He's dressed entirely in black, save for the rich scarlet kerchief – raw silk, Jonathan makes out once he's near enough – knotted about his throat. His clothes are obviously bespoke, cut with as much eye for detail as the best tailor of Savile Row, though perhaps several decades out of date—and so too: charmingly retro. Now face to face, he's at least a head taller than Jonathan himself, with broad shoulders and long legs and a sharpness in his smile that sends a shiver up Jonathan's spine.

Oh, thinks Jonathan.

Then: "My apologies," he says, finally catching up with himself, finally extending a hand. "Jonathan Harker at your service, my lord. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance."

Count Dracula's own long hand, when it closes into Jonathan's, is as cold as ice.

"Likewise, Mr. Harker. Please: sit."

"Thank you, my lord, but I can start setting out the contracts for your perusal—"

Dracula flicks his fingers as if to dispel the thought. "And I will hear none of it until you have supped," he says. "Cook has prepared a fine feast, and it would be a pity to let it go to waste."

*

Jonathan is beyond the point of caring whether the next glass of wine will cost him dearly come morning, and it isn't because of the excellent vintage.

Or not only: so entranced is he with the Count's elegantly accented voice – though Dracula would say he is but a beginner, Jonathan finds his English impeccable – as he regales him with tales of the people of the Carpathians in eons gone by.

They've moved to sit together by the hearth, the Count assuring Jonathan that they needn't worry, the servants will take care of putting supper away, in huge wing chairs gone buttery with use.

Tie shucked and stripped down to his shirtsleeves, warmed by the meal and the fire and the glass in his hand that his host has just generously topped off, Jonathan sinks into the leather and feels himself slip into a sort of daze. Not even the reappearance of the wolf – dog – padding round a corner and settling down at Dracula's feet is enough to rankle his worry.

*

The time he sleeps isn't long enough to conjure a dream, but it's long enough for him to wake to Dracula's touch: that long hand, settling over his own—

And then: "Your bags are already upstairs. Please, my young friend. Follow me."

Chapter Text

"I trust this will not be an...inconvenience," says the Count, fixing Jonathan with a gaze so intent it takes every bit of his willpower to look away, blinking rapidly, his stomach lurching queasily all the while.

"No, not at all," he falters. Christ, but he must be drunker than he thought. And so: "Only—when you say the castle 'lacks facilities,' does that mean you haven't any running water anywhere, or—"

"Only where it is needed. The kitchens. The laboratory. You understand."

Dracula's words invite no argument. They're stood outside what the man has identified as Jonathan's suite, and another long moment passes before he reaches into his pocket for a tarnished brass key, inserts it into the lock, and turns the knob. Jonathan deftly peers round him to take in what he's relieved is a well appointed space, despite the decrepit state of many of the places he'd half-glimpsed in the gloom after they left the grand hall.

Indeed, he boggles despite himself at the sheer volume of velvet and crystal and leather, mahogany and teak, the huge four-poster bed with brocade curtains dyed deepest red planted at the center, all of it lit by gas lamp and candle—

And it suddenly occurs to him that he's seen no evidence the castle is wired for electricity at all, which surely, no—how can he be expected to work without his laptop, he didn't think he'd need to bring hard copies of every blessed document—

Ah. The Count is staring again.

Though not into Jonathan's eyes this time. Rather: somewhere slightly lower, making him wonder whether the wine he'd spilled earlier had made it onto his shirt after all. He flushes and clears his throat and says, "Er. Shall we?"

*

"I will be unobtainable until this evening," Dracula says, once he's shown Jonathan about his suite, putting out candles here, describing a particular quirk there, "due to a personal matter. Please: make yourself at home, and do feel free to explore the castle and its grounds at your leisure."

"Thank you for your hospitality, my lord," says Jonathan. "I'd like that very much."

"Good. Sleep well, Mr. Harker. And should you need anything, simply call out." Dracula smiles. "Rest assured, you will be heard."

"Ah. Duly noted."

The moment the door clicks shut and the Count's footsteps have faded away, Jonathan's already toed off his shoes and thrown himself face-first onto the bed. He grabs a pillow and tucks his face into it, all but groaning to feel the tension slowly begin to ease from his travel-weary body. He hopes he didn't make too much of an ass of himself; the last thing he needs is a bad report getting back to one of the senior partners.

"It'll be fine," he mumbles, unconvincingly. "Now go on and get undressed."

Like an echo long in fading, he can almost still feel the weight of Dracula's hand on his shoulder – on his arm – as he drops away into deep, welcome sleep.

Chapter Text

Jonathan is woken by the rain. And not only: howling wind and great cracks of thunder and lightning that casts his room in vivid streaks of shadow and light—quite shocking enough to spring him out of bed for a look outside—the sky a roiling mass of blue and purple and grey clouds, quite unlike anything he's ever seen—and then, almost to the edge of the castle grounds, the shape of a figure huddled round a single, flickering blue flame—

Jonathan is woken by the silence. He checks his watch to see it's just gone three, and the storm has passed—

Jonathan is woken by the touch of cold hands on this brow, his jaw, his throat—

"Ugh. Fucking hell," he says, pulling his blankets back to confirm what he already knew: he'd spent himself in the night like a bloody teenager. Despite himself, he flushes with embarrassment. He tries – and fails – to piece together what the dream had even been about, peeling off his shirt and soiled boxers and making use of the in-room toilet, such as it is.

Two ibuprofen, down the hatch.

Replacing the pill bottle in his bag, he spots the pack of cigarettes he'd allowed himself to bring on the condition that they be used For Emergency Only – he'd mostly been successful in quitting the damned things six months ago – at once deciding that this definitely qualifies.

It takes all of Jonathan's strength to get the window open, despite it not giving the Count a bit of trouble the night before. There must be a trick, he thinks, getting a cigarette lit and sighing through that first glorious drag into the open air.

With his other hand, he thumbs his mobile phone on, sets it to search, and sticks it aloft. Unsurprisingly, it comes up NO SERVICE; but something in his stomach churns at the sight.

"Keep it together, Johnny," he says through a puff of smoke. "Only another day to go and then back home."

It's beautiful out; a bright morning with a clear sky, and save for the scattering of debris littered here and there about the grounds, you'd never guess it had stormed.

From up here, he can see the graveyard extending out from the castle chapel—though the roof itself seems to have fallen in, with the main structure in serious disrepair—as well as a garden gone half-wild, all rambling roses and stonework figures caked with lichen, and what seems to be a walking path extending beyond the gate.

Perfect.

Jonathan had risked going over on his luggage weight in order to pack his hiking boots, unsure if he'd even have a chance to get a bit of sightseeing in before it was time for him to return to London; but once he gets his things unpacked, and his paperwork sorted, he'll have a bit of a ramble and take enough photos to convince his friends that their worries of whether he's getting out enough are totally unfounded.

Chapter Text

The front doors are locked.

Indeed, somehow – also: quite impossibly – all the ways of getting outside are barred, latched, or simply sealed shut—so many of the windows filthy, opaque with grime, that the castle's entire ground floor is cast in grey half-light.

It's still easy to take in the trappings of real wealth. The glamour amid the gloom. All the furnishings are antique, by Jonathan's limited knowledge dating back centuries: intricately carved wood and polished silver, not to mention taxidermy animals, and horns and antlers crowding the walls by the dozens. And bloody hell, the tapestries—

He's met no servants, nor anyone else in his wanderings.

And when he calls out, "Hello?" – tentatively at first, as though he's the one missing something here—and then louder, more insistent – he receives no answer.

"Staff meeting," Jonathan says, under his breath, passing from a drawing room into a parlour. "There must be some sort of—offsite meeting or something." The Count did say he wouldn't be available until later. Maybe he'd meant his staff as well.

Slowly but surely, he makes his way back to his suite. Steady breathing helps. Affirmative thoughts help. Because having a panic attack, here and now, is out of the fucking question.

And then: his door, ajar.

Every nerve on end, he pushes it the rest of the way open, revealing it exactly as he'd left it save for the full tea service set up on the sideboard beside the desk.

There's a still-steaming carafe and a generous selection of loose teas, milk, and honey in a pot, plus a tray of toast and another of biscuits, and Jonathan might simply weep at the sight.

He drops his rucksack and washes up, briefly wondering how his hair has endured the morning—but that's strange. He could've sworn he left his mirror here by the basin.

Checking for it in his toiletry case, he spots the pack of cigarettes and is at once struck with a pang of longing. Oh, what the hell. Two smokes in two days is bloody nothing.

Getting it lit – the window's still open, but he doesn't bother overmuch to blow his smoke outside this time: who's to say the Count isn't himself a smoker, any anyway, how often could he have reason to make it up to the guest rooms? – he fixes himself a pot of splendid-smelling Darjeeling.

While it steeps he sets out his Discman and speaker. Then he flips through his wallet of CDs before settling on the obvious choice—the only answer in times of doubt—and before long the soft, dulcet tones of David Bowie fill the suite.

Space Oddity had been the first CD he ever bought; and so too: the first album he clung to as a child when his mum and her latest boyfriend were having another row, turning it up in his tiny bedroom to block out everything else. It still brings him comfort.

The tea, when he drinks it, is hot and delicious.

Chapter Text

Jonathan pauses, pen hovering over the blank postcard—the last of the lot, because of course the others had all but written themselves, cheeky with remarks on the weather and the castle's leaky roof—

But this one... He doesn't know what to say. He rarely does, after everything. That Mina had come through the grief of their breakup with an open heart, not to mention an open offer to watch Jonathan's cat whenever he needs, somehow makes it harder.

And so, simply: Mina darling, thought you'd enjoy this recipe for paprika hendl; had something similar on the train from Bucharest—wow!

He copies it out in partial shorthand from a volume he'd found en route through the scullery this morning – slowly and deliberately thumbing through his phrasebook to translate – and signs, Yours, Johnny.

*

The search for postage stamps leads Jonathan to the most magnificent room he's encountered yet: the library.

A vast, airy space with shelves rising high towards the vaulted ceiling, and housing what's easily the largest private collection he's ever seen—books and manuscripts and maps and scrolls, binders of magazines and newspapers, plus hundreds of vinyl records—and a turntable, stereo, and antique television set that abruptly hisses to life with when he turns the dial.

"Ah! Fuck!" Jonathan yelps, halfway tripping over his own feet as he staggers backward. But on second thought, the realization that the castle isn't without electricity is a relief: he'll have somewhere to charge his mobile.

And just as he'd hoped, there's a writing desk laid out with stationary, pens and paper, and there, the stamps he needs for his postcards. He sets these onto a stack of bulging envelopes, already sealed and addressed in what must be the Count's own beautifully sloping script: Whitby and Varna and London and Budapest.

Then something on the shelf above catches his eye—is it? Yes! A first edition set of The Lord of the Rings, and around it: dozens of other classics, whole catalogues of many of the most popular English authors of the last two hundred years.

Reverently, he touches the nearest line of gilt-edged and dust-jacketed spines, hesitating only a moment before sliding The Hobbit from the shelf.

It isn't in pristine condition. No—it's been read, held and reshelved and read again, perhaps even become a favorite through several generations—

Though Jonathan still has yet to encounter anyone living here but the driver and Dracula himself.

Likewise: no one to complain if he has a bit of a sit.

There's a sofa beneath one of the few windows that turns out to be every bit as comfortable as it looks, and Jonathan settles in with the book across his thighs; feeling himself relax; only meaning to rest his eyes for a little while—

And he's walking down a hallway. Passing door after door—

Oh, yes. It's this one, carved mahogany the shade of blood, with a silver knob—so cool to the touch when he turns it—when it opens—

Chapter Text

Dinner that night is a sort of provincial stew: braised hare and wild onions set amid a fragrant herbal broth, with thick slices of bread and butter so sweet Jonathan nearly moans to taste it—along with a couple of glasses of the local tawny, one might describe it in a word: satiating.

Again, the Count has already eaten.

But he drinks, refilling his cut glass goblet with a draught so darkly red it's almost black – some decades old vinho do Porto or the like, surely – his long fingers toying with the stem.

Not for the first time, Jonathan feels a shiver of uncertainty when the other man's eyes lock with his from across the table. Christ, but he's fit, hardly even seeming the sixty-five Jonathan had clocked him at the night before. And yet there's something almost unearthly about his attractiveness, and the deep melody of his voice, and the beauty of his pale face lit gold in the candlelight, eyes glinting like flames in a skull—

He's also a fine conversationalist, witty and engaging, even going so far as to crack an obliging smile when Jonathan drags out one of the half dozen jokes he typically reserves for work functions and weddings.

But it's this that emboldens him enough to say, matter-of-factly: "From my bedroom window I noticed a lovely little garden that I—I'd thought I might walk there earlier today, but the door out of the castle was locked."

The door in question is visible over Dracula's shoulder, half-open to let in the freshly perfumed evening air. And also, occasionally, the chorus of wolves. He tilts his head. "Indeed."

"Yes. In fact, every door I tried was..." Jonathan pauses to make a pained little grimace—why can't he just laugh the bloody thing off? And yet his analyst has drilled into him a bare toolkit of platitudes, including stick up for yourself, so: "Shut."

"Apologies. An oversight of no small magnitude, you'll agree. We don't frequently take guests."

"And by we do you mean—that is, I've met no one else here at all besides you and the driver—"

"Ah. The driver," says Dracula, and for a moment it seems he might laugh—but then his expression shifts. Darkens. He holds Jonathan's gaze and Jonathan thinks abruptly, madly, ah, so this is what it means to be seduced, as preposterous a thing as falling down a rabbit hole, for all he wants it.

For all he wants.

For all he wonders what power the Count might choose to exert over him, should he fall.

Beneath the table, their feet touch, jolting Jonathan back to alertness. Of course, there's no way of knowing whether this or any of the times before had meant something—whether Dracula's look hints at another kind of hunger—

"Tell me, my dear Mr. Harker, more about England."

"Oh," says Jonathan. He shivers and adjusts his glasses and reaches for his wine, emptying what's left in a single gulp. Then: "Where to begin?"

Chapter Text

Jonathan finds himself standing outside the Count's office a full hour before their appointment the next morning. And he'd meant to linger in the portrait gallery a while, or pop back round to the library to return The Hobbit—he'd meant to make better use of the limited time he has left in the castle—

He'd at the bare bloody minimum meant to finish his tea—

But for his nerves.

But for the screaming.

He'd heard it from his bedroom, some eight hours ago now already, the first hint of which was so alien a thing that he'd thought nothing of it. It was a windy night, and cool enough he'd put in the substantial effort it took to get the window shut.

But then he heard it again, louder this time, and longer, shouting in a language too garbled to identify interspersed with great guttural bursts of sound that seemed more animal than human. Hell, he couldn't even tell where it was coming from; that it was coming from everywhere seemed more likely.

Oh, no. No no no. Jonathan's stomach had clenched in sickly panic, but it was too late to call Dracula back; anyway, on parting the man had mentioned he was leaving Jonathan to attend to other business. And surely he must have been aware—

And then, as abruptly as it began, the noise stopped.

Presently, Jonathan checks his watch, relieved he's only another fifty-three minutes to go until he and the Count start on the Carfax agreements, which at the outset should be finalized by mid-afternoon. With any luck he'll be back in Bistrița with enough time to grab a pint before heading to the train station—distractedly, he tries to remember the name of the pub Quincey had recommended…

"You're early."

"Ah!" Jonathan yelps, just about jumping out of his own skin. Behind him the door has swung swiftly and silently open, apparently by some sort of remote control, revealing Dracula's office – a wide space lit by antique filigree fixtures, the bay windows curtained up tight – as well as Dracula himself, now standing up behind the huge mahogany desk to greet his guest.

Jonathan takes his hand, sufficiently used to its coolness by now to not flinch, and says, "Forgive me, my lord. I know we'd agreed on ten o'clock, so I wasn't expecting… Er. I've all the contracts in order, whenever you're ready to get started."

Dracula gives him a canny look. "Are you well, Mr. Harker?"

"Yes." Jonathan draws in a breath, and of course all told he'd probably got less than an hour's worth of sleep, to say nothing of burning through half his remaining cigarettes; and he'd had a hell of a time shaving without his mirror—maybe not so different from the all-nighters he used to pull back in law school.

His inner voice demands, And the screaming?

But then again, the Count is waiting. Popping the lock on his briefcase, Jonathan says, "Nothing a cup of tea can't solve."

Chapter Text

Jonathan bites his lip, diligently completing one last round of mental gymnastics: if he finishes the contract revisions this afternoon—unlikely, considering how particular the Count's been over even the standard verbiages... and the driver absolutely guns it back down the mountain—even more unlikely, considering how cavalier the man had been about Jonathan's schedule before...

There's nothing for it. He won't make his train.

He'll have to stay on at the castle another night.

"Well," he says, "if it isn't an imposition."

Dracula's supple mouth curls into a smile. "No. In fact, you've leant this place a... liveliness it hasn't known for some time. Think nothing of it."

In fact, Jonathan thinks quite a lot of it. Of the morning spent sightseeing in Bucharest before he has to fly home, now as good as scratched. Of Mina wondering why he hasn't been round to pick up Tommy; of her ringing his mobile; of the message she might leave.

Of lying awake listening to sounds he hasn't a name for—or does, but can't explain.

And so: another night. "Mr. Hawkins will no doubt charge you dearly for my overtime," says Jonathan. Quite of its own will, one of his feet has begun tapping out a staccato rhythm on the stone floor. Just one more night. "But it's only money, eh?"

Dracula's smile sharpens into a grin. "Indeed."

Jonathan smiles hesitantly back before returning to his files, there's another blank set of forms here somewhere—and proceeds to give himself a decidedly gruesome paper cut. The inch-long slice through the meat of his thumb wells up with a thick trickle of blood before he has time to react.

But Dracula does. He exhales sharply, almost in a hiss, and lurches forward in his chair. Irate. Or perhaps simply revolted, his eyes blazing as he reaches across the desk towards Jonathan.

"Sorry, sorry," Jonathan stammers, bending down to rummage through his satchel for a plaster. Damned embarrassing—but then again, loads of people can't stand the sight of blood. Why should the Count be so unmoved?

But then, like a storm cloud, Dracula's look passes. In one swift movement he extracts a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and presses it to the cut, Jonathan's right hand held firmly between both of his own. "Take care," he says. "You must apply pressure to the wound before bandaging it."

"Oh," says Jonathan. "Thank you."

Dracula arches one articulate brow. For a moment Jonathan thinks he'll come even closer; his gaze rises to Jonathan's mouth. And then: "Your heart is racing."

"Is it?" Jonathan swallows, flustered by the attention despite himself. But just the same, he can feel his pulse thumping away where the immaculate white cloth has gone red. "I've ruined your handkerchief."

"I've hundreds more." Dracula shrugs. His voice seems somehow deeper than it did before. "And only one of you. Waste not, Mr. Harker."

With that, he unwinds the cloth, revealing Jonathan's thumb: swollen, sore, but - as promised - no longer bleeding.

Chapter Text

Invite him in, Jonathan thinks, madly, truly—stupidly. And yet: What if I were to just...invite him inside?

But he can't. Not at the risk of losing his job, if Dracula's lingering attentions have been affectation, whether by unfamiliar custom or the usual peculiarity of the rich, which Jonathan has misread; or conversely if Dracula knows well enough what Jonathan is and has been having a laugh at his expense; or, perhaps worst of all, if he says, "Yes."

If Jonathan lets himself fall—Well. What then?

"Thank you," he says instead, forcing his dry throat to swallow. "In case I don't see you in the morning, please accept my thanks for your generous hospitality. It really has been a pleasure working with you, my lord, and I hope our paths cross again someday." He quirks a smile. "Holmwood and Holmwood oversees hundreds of property sales throughout the city, so do keep us in mind should you ever wish to expand your holdings."

A prepared speech, rattled off without a hitch. Thank the devil for small favors: he mustn't be quite as pissed as he'd thought.

"Oh, believe me, Mr. Harker. The pleasure has all been mine."

There's a look in Dracula's eyes that makes Jonathan think, Like the cat that got the cream, not really knowing why but feeling his stomach churn hotly just the same.

And then, quickly: Oh, get a bloody grip, Johnny.

The moment the door to his suite clicks shut, he sags against it, forcing himself to breathe.

And then: Beep.

Jonathan startles, looking wildly about—

Beep.

What—What the hell—

Beep.

Ah. His mobile, complaining of a depleted battery. He examines the tiny screen for a moment before clicking it off. Damn. He'd already imagined using it once he regains signal, if only to give the office his updated itinerary—and Mina too.

Then something occurs to him: there's power in the library. He can plug his phone in there and leave it to charge overnight. Quickly, he grabs his satchel and the palm-sized torch from his bag before his resolve even hints at wavering.

The way isn't even dark. Not totally. Not with the moonlight streaming through the windows in great silvery swaths, not to mention the occasional flickering candelabra, which while rather romantic, strikes him as something of a fire hazard.

No matter. He arrives without incident – without staring too long into the shadows – and makes his way to the television set where, sure enough, he finds an unoccupied wall socket.

He's crouched there on the floor when he feels a touch on the back of his neck, followed by long, bony fingers that claw painfully at his collar and hair. In a moment, he's tossed into the center of the room, crying out when his head hits the carpet.

Still, he can make out a shape—surely not a human—filthy clothes rotting off a gnarled body, its expression pure, blind fury—

Not a human.

But now: three of them.

Chapter Text

Jonathan Harker is about to die.

The only question is whether said death will be via braining or mauling or—or perhaps he'll simply be eaten—devoured right here on the antique Turkish carpet by the horrible trio of figures currently closing in above him.

Certainly they've teeth sharp enough for the job. Long, yellowing fangs that protrude from their slathering mouths, their faces contorting with every snap of their hungry jaws. Exposed bones. Grey flesh Jonathan abruptly realizes has here and there been gnawed on. He gags to taste the air permeating about them, a rank stench punctuated by rot.

Stinking, sallow. Simply: monsters.

For all his devotion to the fantastical, the reality of facing something that's crawled straight out of an Evil Dead film is... not Jonathan's idea of a good time.

He lets out a scream – Bruce Campbell, eat your bloody heart out – and scrambles away, crawling on all fours, thankful beyond measure he's already pointed towards the exit.

"Help!" Jonathan calls, wondering madly where his lordship even is—whether he's too far away to hear Jonathan's voice. And yet he has to try: "Please, Count Dracula! Help me!"

But before he can make it out, one of the creatures has him by the ankle and he's half-dragged, half-thrown back towards the other two. He blinks, dazedly, as a pair of hands fastens over his shoulders, and then another grabs at his torso, taloned fingers tearing his shirt.

And not only: "Ah!" he gasps to see a fucking fount of blood rise up where the creature has slashed him. Pain sizzles through his abdomen and it's only out of instinct that he shrinks away, his brain circling round and round and there's nowhere to go, nothing to do but brace for another attack—

"Stop!" Dracula's voice booms through the room for several long moments before the man himself appears, his broad frame overtaking the distance so quickly he seems to glide. In an instant, he has the nearest of the creatures round the throat, lifted up, and thrown backward.

"How dare you touch him when I have forbidden it!"

And Dracula himself: dark eyes gone red, blazing, burning like embers—supple mouth drawn back in a snarl to reveal sharp – too sharp – teeth. Like the others. Like nothing Jonathan has ever seen.

The very picture of wrath.

One of the creatures snarls back at him, and another growls in agreement, taking a lunge at Jonathan. Dracula tosses them away too. "Scraps?" he says, menacingly. "You're lucky I don't let you starve. Now go! This man belongs to me."

With that, Jonathan finds himself nimbly lifted into the Count's arms – as strong as a bear—and when has that thought occurred to him before? – so that he can see that the man's eyes are again quite brown.

Briefly, Dracula's nostril's flare, and he smiles in utmost pleasure, as if scenting some beautiful perfume. "My dear Mr. Harker, you have got yourself into a spot of bother, haven't you?"

Chapter Text

"'...only wished to have a look at you and see if you were truly as great as tales say. I did not believe them,'" comes a voice: Count Dracula, sat in a leather wing chair beside Jonathan's – own, he confirms, glancing about the room and seeing his belongings – bed, the copy of The Hobbit Jonathan took from the library across his knee. He glances up and smiles—

"Ah. You're awake." Most charmingly. "Good."

A flash in his mind: the memory of Dracula, before... Jonathan passed out. Of teeth and blood—

Of horror.

"What are you?" Jonathan demands, rapidly shifting backwards and regretting it at once. Pain jolts through him and he can't stifle his groan when he spots the bandages circling his midsection.

Dracula sighs and reaches out, coaxing him back. "Oh, I've been called many things over the years," he says. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing toned, darkly haired forearms. "Some of them even came close to the truth."

"Which is?"

"At the moment, nothing if not certain you'll bust yourself open again, carrying on like that." Dracula turns to the pitcher and glass on the nightstand. The water looks very clear; very cool.

"It's poisoned."

Dracula lets out a bark of genuine laughter. "My dear boy, if I wanted you dead... you would be."

Jonathan grimaces. Then he empties the proffered glass in one gulp. And when offered a refill he drinks it down too; but slowly; taking in, after each swallow, Dracula's appreciative, lingering glances.

Fancy that: Jonathan was right.

It feels a somewhat bitter victory—he imagines bragging to his friends about his gaydar being properly calibrated for once—then he imagines never seeing his friends again—and then, before panic can pull him under, he tells himself: Enough.

Jonathan looks Dracula in the eye. "The castle—are we alone here with those..."

"Revenants," Dracula says. And then, answering Jonathan's look: "Yes. Which means if you'd like something other than tea and toast for breakfast, do say so."

"Are you going to let me go free?"

"I was under the impression that lawyers don't ask questions they haven't already answered themselves." Dracula tilts his head. "You know, this has always been one of my favorites. But who the hell has time to read these days? I'm lucky if I can skip ahead to the really good parts before calling it a night." He taps the cover. "What d'you say we start at the beginning together?"

"You—you expect me to just lie here?"

"It's worked well enough for you these past several hours."

Jonathan glares at him. But in the end he knows there's no use fighting—yet. He needs to rebuild his strength, to find out who and what Count Dracula is, and most importantly: he needs time. "Well, seeing as my schedule's freed up considerably, I don't see why not."

"That's the spirit." Dracula smiles again, not unkindly – Jonathan looks away, feeling himself flush hot with anger—nothing else – and opens the book.

Chapter Text

Jonathan now knows the span of his life.

It isn't a mercy. More like some deranged game: even if he stops Dracula reading every chance he gets – and for his part, Dracula doesn't seem offended by Jonathan's interruptions—he's a good listener, patiently waiting until Jonathan finishes before offering a response – he'll still only have a couple of days to get the hell out of here, tops.

And of course Jonathan finds himself forgetting to stop Dracula reading.

As the man's deep, finely accented voice works its magic on this, one of Jonathan's most cherished books, he's filled with a heady contentedness he hasn't known for ages. Hell, he half-forgets he's supposed to be frightened.

Experimentally, he lets his eyes flutter shut so the scene of the room – and the Count at his bedside – fade into the bright if blurry images of his mind's eye.

Then: "You're drifting, Mr. Harker."

Jonathan sniffs and shakes his head. "I'm not," he argues. "I'm just... thinking."

"Oh?"

"What if Bilbo had just told the dwarves to sod off? And he never went on his adventure?"

"Then we wouldn't have much of a story."

Well. Jonathan can't argue with that. He lets Dracula get on with it—though sleep does take him, not long before dawn, dreamless and deep.

*

"Let me out of here! Goddamn it, let me out!" Jonathan is panting, hoarse from screaming his bloody head off—he'd woken to the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, Dracula gone, and the door to his suite locked tight.

For now. He winds up and then wacks the solid oak with the poker from his fireplace, striking it again and again; but the thing doesn't budge.

Damn it all. He lets out a little laugh, though it's really more of a cry. There's no telling when Dracula will be back: the man keeps hours Jonathan has yet to comprehend, not to mention the point of the entire thing is Jonathan's eventual demise...

Down to the last five cigarettes. Fuck.

With shaking hands, Jonathan lights one and takes a long drag, feeling the tension begin to retreat from the back of his skull. It feels good to sit down. With all his running around, the pain in his side has become a constant throb, so the idea of getting fully dressed – of making a statement in his three-piece suit—of bending over to tie his shoes—is short lived.

He wonders, gloomily, what Dracula is doing right now.

Of course he'd gone through Jonathan's things. He stole Jonathan's wallet and passport.

His briefcase and most of his papers? Left behind in Dracula's office. His mobile: presumed lost, taken or destroyed by those—those—revenants, Dracula had called them.

Which means what, exactly?

At least his laptop is holding strong at 72%. He loads up the encyclopedia and types, Transylvania, myths and legends, and only pauses a moment – that sinking feeling hits him again – before clicking on the top result: Vrolok, Vlkoslak (see also: Vampire).

Chapter Text

That night the sun sets so red all the world seems lit on fire.

Or at least the part of it Jonathan can see from his window, the unfathomable woods and high, craggy mountains: a stunning landscape, rugged and old, so isolated that knowing with certainty there are towns—cities—mere miles from here brings little comfort.

Just then the door to his suite swings open, revealing Dracula, loaded dinner tray in hand.

The vitriolic speech Jonathan's spent the last while queuing up dies on his lips. Instead: "You're back." Pathetic. But part of him has worried the Count might've misplaced the key, or been called away, or simply forgot—

"Indeed, bearing gifts." Dracula sets the tray down on the table by the hearth, claiming one of the chairs beside it and motioning for Jonathan to take the other. "Please. It's best hot."

Jonathan's too hungry to argue.

As he eats – dumplings, stewed vegetables, brown bread to sop up the broth, and wine: delicious – he sneaks glances at his captor, for surely there must be something strange about him.

These things are supposed to have rules. The articles Jonathan managed to read before his laptop's battery died said as much—besides which: Jack, after a few rounds, used to often delight in regaling their happy group with accounts of criminal pathologies he'd read about in his abnormal psychology textbooks; and Mina even now manages to drag Jonathan to the occasional midnight fright film, and he's picked up a thing or two despite hiding behind his hands most of the time...

Silver bullets. Holy water. Garlic—which, judging by the meal, doesn't vex Dracula in the slightest.

And so either Jonathan is being held by a normal sort of psychopath and not a vampire (werewolf?) at all...or Count Dracula defies the stories.

Jonathan has to remind himself that either way, this man is likely a bloody killer. But his hair is also out of its usual tie tonight, falling in loose curls about his ears and onto his shoulders; his beard looks freshly trimmed; the top button of his black silk shirt is undone, revealing the pale line of his throat and a smattering of chest hair. His nails are long, almost claw-like, though well-groomed.

And his gaze is almost palpable. So, begrudgingly: "It's good. You're a talented cook."

"Yes, well, one doesn't eat as many grannies as I do without learning a thing or two." Dracula leans suddenly forward to pat Jonathan's knee, half-laughing as Jonathan sputters through a gulp of wine. "Perhaps leave it go with a raised eyebrow."

Jonathan takes another moment to recover. But hell. He's a goddamn lawyer, isn't he? So, with all his gumption: "And so you admit it? You're a—a—you intend to kill me."

"Of course."

"But why? I'm nobody. I can't possibly hold any value to you."

"Oh no, my dear Mr. Harker." Dracula's smile curves over long white teeth. "You are the high road that leads me to England."

Chapter Text

Before Jonathan can think better of it and despite the throbbing pain in his side, he's stumbling towards the bed where he has the fire poker stashed under a pillow. The iron feels good in his hands. Solid. Strong as he pivots round with it like a cricket bat, ready to swing—

To see the Count looking at him with real surprise, his features lighting up as he says delightedly, "Oh, now this is interesting."

And then he lunges forward in a flash, grabs the poker and tosses it away. Jonathan flinches from him. But Dracula is faster. He slides his cool hand over Jonathan's face, cupping his cheek, ghosting a thumb over his mouth before tilting his chin up, forcing Jonathan to meet his eyes.

"A valiant effort. But ultimately pointless. Tell me: what were you intending to do?" Dracula's eyes are glowing red, and an alarming number of his teeth have sharpened into fangs. "Knock me over the head?"

Fuck, but it's true. Terror and awe set over Jonathan like a veil. He can't look away. "Please—"

"My dear, even if you made it out of the castle, these lands are loyal to me. My minions would have you back at my doorstep, and into my dungeon, before dawn."

"You're a monster."

"And you're a lawyer. Nobody's perfect." For another moment, Dracula holds Jonathan's gaze. Then he pulls back. "Now. Come finish your supper, won't you?"

"Why should I? Why should I do as you say when you're just going to kill me?"

Dracula arches a brow. "That doesn't mean I want you to starve. Look: you can go get the poker if it makes you feel better—or perhaps you'd rather try out the matching shovel."

Jonathan glares at him but returns to his seat, fully intending to refuse the rest of his meal—but finding himself still hungry despite everything. He eats in dejected silence – Dracula watching him all the while – before he says, "You aren't having any. You never do."

"No," Dracula agrees. He tilts his head as if considering something, and then, matter-of-factly: "Not for over five hundred years."

"You're serious," says Jonathan. He swallows, at once curious and prickling with dread. "How is it possible?"

"Simply: blood, Mr. Harker. Blood is life."

"So you'll what—bite my neck? Suck me dry?"

"That's usually how it works, yes."

"And why not get it over with?" Jonathan wants to know. "Why go to all this trouble to make me..."

"Comfortable?" Dracula shrugs. "Eternity drags, and I've another couple of weeks before I'm due to ship out. It's been so long since I had the pleasure of really chatting with someone."

"Are you seriously saying you're keeping me alive because you enjoy my company?"

"Why should it surprise you?"

Jonathan lets out a pained little laugh. While his brain is trying – and failing – to compose an adequate response, his mouth takes the liberty: "Well, fuck me."

Dracula laughs too. "All right," he says. "If you like."

Chapter Text

"That isn't—" Jonathan is suddenly and acutely aware that somewhere in his heart of traitorous hearts – to say nothing of his cock, currently stirring hopefully in his pajamas – that he very much would like. And yet: "I'm not—"

"You blush beautifully, Mr. Harker," says Dracula. "Does the idea of intimacy between men upset you?"

"Quite the opposite," Jonathan says, bristling in defense.

"Ah. Perhaps I've struck a nerve. You have a boyfriend awaiting you in London."

"I don't, not that it's any of your bloody business. But I do have a life. A job. It took me six years to make junior partner, but I did it. I have a flat—and hobbies—and friends who care about me." Jonathan pushes his glasses up to rub angrily at the dampening corners of his eyes. "I—I have a cat.

"Please, Count Dracula. If you've any scrap of decency—let me go."

Dracula tilts his head. "I'm sorry, my dear boy. But that is out of the question."

*

Jonathan acquiesces when Dracula asks to change the dressing on his wound.

He hadn't looked before—worried of what he might find, he hadn't dared. But Dracula's hands are steady. He's quite gentle as he works the bandage round and round Jonathan's waist – Jonathan opts to hoist his shirt up rather than remove it altogether, self-conscious of Dracula's gaze – unwinding until there's only the narrow, blood-stained strip of gauze below—

And then the wound itself: four inches of pale skin gone vividly pink along the Y-shaped gash where Dracula stitched him up, and bruised a sickly sort of purple all around. He feels suddenly faint. Christ, but it's by far the worst injury he's had in his life.

Probably infected. Sure to leave a hell of a scar.

Jonathan lets a hiss escape through his teeth. "It looks like an animal attacked me."

Dracula shrugs, turning to the neat little first aid kit he'd opened across the bed. "That's not far off," he says. "Most of the people I feed on simply die. And the few that don't... Well. Hardly more intellect than a dog. Filthy, violent, with a truly relentless appetite. It's a good thing I found you when I did."

"Can't you do something about them?"

"What, destroy them? Of course I could." Dracula quirks a grin, his eyes on his quick work; again, his nostrils flare, as if scenting something delicious. "But then I'd have to clean my own windows. There. All done."

Jonathan lets his shirt drop. Glumly, he watches his captor put away his tools and dispose of the soiled bandages. To think that it's been him all along, attending to Jonathan's every domestic need, strains credulity. This Count—this vampire—

And he has to know: "Have you...fed...on me?"

"No," says Dracula. He's at the basin washing his hands, drying them on the towel, retrieving the copy of The Hobbit from the shelf. "Not yet. But something tells me you're going to be worth the wait."

Chapter Text

There's nothing for it: Jonathan will simply have to seduce Count Dracula.

Intellectually.

Intellectually speaking—the man's an exceptional scholar. One glimpse into his library – not to mention his singular knack for analogy, reference, and recitation – proves it. But beyond that, Jonathan's found himself astonished by how much the vampire knows about human affairs; and he's seen the curiosity in Dracula's gaze, like moonlight on a lake, hinting at a reservoir of dark intelligence...

"Right. Right, so I'll just charm him into letting me leave, shall I?" he grumbles, currently rounding a lap about his suite. He's moving steadily, one foot in front of the other, using the fire poker as a cane. "Or perhaps trick the old dragon into letting his guard down?"

Jonathan lets out a short, bitter laugh. As if he stands a chance against the Count.

And yet it's his only chance, isn't it?

He stops to stare out the window. He's too far up to jump, and his stomach lurches at the thought of climbing down the castle wall unaided. If only he could fashion a rope—

The thought is broken by a long, piercing scream—followed by another.

Then: nothing.

Jonathan groans and makes for his bed, climbing in and throwing the covers over his head. It takes him a long time to calm his breathing, and even then he's sure he'll never sleep.

But eventually he does, and dreams of darkness, and cold, and a hallway lined with doors.

*

"Tell me: was she red?"

"What?"

"The sun. She sometimes sets quite red over the mountains at this time of year."

"Why don't you look for yourself?"

"Why, Jonathan?" Dracula says – Jonathan had demanded Dracula stop calling him 'Mr. Harker' earlier in the evening – slowly, carefully, as if savoring each syllable. "Because doing so would burn me to a crisp."

Unbidden, Jonathan recalls Bela Lugosi's legendary turn in Varney the Vampire—one of the only horror flicks Mina ever got him to watch more than once—and how horribly Varney had writhed when facing the sun.

He imagines Dracula like that and feels sick.

"Where do you go," Jonathan ventures, "during the day?" And when it's clear Dracula won't answer: "You must miss it though. I—I'm one of those sorts who goes red as a lobster after fifteen minutes—but the idea of never again feeling its warmth..." He meets Dracula's eye. "If I tell you about the sunset, would you grant me a request?"

"Such as?"

"A phone ca—"

"No."

"Hell, if you'd only..." Jonathan thumps his fist on the bed, suddenly furious. Then, gritted: "I've run out of cigarettes."

"Smoking causes cancer, Jonathan."

"Cancer doesn't exactly top the list of my concerns right now, Count." Deliberately, Jonathan sucks in a breath. "I'm sorry. Please. They... calm me down."

"Well, when you put it like that..." Dracula smiles. Then he nods, and Jonathan tells him how the sky that evening had sunk from clear blue to the shade of freshly spilled blood.

Chapter Text

"D'you want one?" Jonathan asks through a plume of smoke, sliding his lighter into his pocket. He'd rallied the strength to get properly dressed today—the blue suit with pinstripes—and any struggle and griping over tying his shoes was paid for twice over when he caught Dracula's expression upon seeing him.

Jonathan had surprised the vampire: a small victory.

"No," Dracula says. The plate of roast chicken he's currently uncovering smells nothing short of divine.

"But could you consume something other than… than blood, if you wanted to?"

"I'm afraid not. But then, blood is the only sustenance I need." Dracula takes his usual seat, and Jonathan follows behind, only hesitating a moment before tucking into his meal. "Human blood is life. And it is also lives."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'll take everything, Jonathan. Memories. Wishes. Dreams—and nightmares too. Everything that makes you you will belong to me."

Jonathan shudders. To think that the outcome of all this might be Dracula knowing him in such a way – perhaps even better than he's ever known himself – horrifies as much as it defies comprehension.

And so, bluffing nobly: "If it's tube routes you're after, why don't I save you some trouble? There's a copy of the A-Z in my bag."

"Yes. I know there is."

*

The Count had brought Jonathan not one pack of cigarettes that night, but three.

He also brought a pint of vodka which is now rather more like a third.

Drunk. Jonathan's well and truly pissed, and the monster is staring again with that strange light in his eyes, and he knows with certainty what it must feel like to be an animal in a zoo.

"Anyway," he says, presently, "I never leave London unless I absolutely must. But this trip was too much of an opportunity to pass up. My big break, I thought. Ha!" He lets out a sob, but it's more like a laugh. "Little did I know I was heading into certain doom."

"You're handling it with remarkable aplomb."

"Yes, well, 'hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way,' and all that."

Dracula tilts his head. "Pink Floyd," he says. Then he laughs: "Really, my dear boy. The last time I checked, Dark Side of the Moon had sold something like twenty million copies. Does it really shock you that I should own one of them?"

"It doesn't, actually. I saw your record collection. Your library—It's—" The last place I saw my phone. "—wonderful."

Dracula smiles in genuine pleasure, and Jonathan has to look away.

*

Later, much later, Jonathan wakes to find himself alone.

There's a glass of water on his nightstand he uses to wash down the ibuprofen set out beside it. Of course his head is pounding. He's back in his pajamas, quite unsure whether he'd been the one to get himself changed, or if it'd been Dracula.

"Christ, Harker," he groans. "You're never getting out of here..."

And then he sees the open door.

Chapter Text

Dracula's pet is on the other side.

"Fuck!" Jonathan scuttles backward and slams the door – and the dog—wolf—bloodthirsty were-beast, or whatever the hell else it may be – behind him.

It doesn't matter. The thing's huge, with broad shoulders and powerful limbs and a ferocious maw, all well enough to break through the wood quite handily.

And Jonathan too. The appearance of freedom has just been another game; a laugh at his expense; the hope – and folly – of escape. So: "Fuck." Now only a puff of breath.

It's then that he notices the note on the sideboard.

My friend— I've drawn you a bath. Follow Bersicker to the lavatories in the east wing: he knows the way. —Dracula.

Jonathan's stomach sinks as he reads it a second, then a third time, until the Count's elegant handwriting begins to blur in his vision, the paper trembling in time with his hand.

But it isn't like he hasn't already decided.

He lifts his robe from its hook, shuffles into his slippers, and works the knob. "Well," he says as Bersicker stands up, his head nearly up to Jonathan's waist, good god—and then, "lead on, Macduff."

*

The water is perfumed with sandalwood, and hot enough that Jonathan takes his time getting in.

It feels incredible.

Inch by glorious inch, his body begins to relax. Even the freshly unbandaged skin which less than a day ago had been so abused, and which he was both shocked and relieved to discover has now almost healed, feels but rosily tender. He doesn't know how the Count did it – what disgusting machinations he might have employed – and frankly, he doesn't care. No. For the moment, he's content to let his eyes droop shut, and almost imagine he's back home... and there isn't a vampire holding him captive.

Almost.

Bersicker shifts in the doorway, grunting until he's resettled to his liking, right in the center of a long sunbeam. It creates a glimmering effect across his dark coat.

Beautiful, Jonathan thinks, unbidden.

But really, the whole room is. Magnificently lit, with the sun streaming through the windows in such a way as to cascade off every surface—and there: the mirror. The only one he's seen since losing his own, a cracked and tarnished thing set carelessly to the side of the vanity, but no matter: he'll have his first proper shave in a week. His heart could bloody sing.

He wishes, suddenly, he'd thought to bring his CDs and player. A little Radiohead would do the trick.

But another cigarette isn't bad, lit from the dog end of its predecessor; his third. Fourth? Whatever. He'd quit before. He'll do it again if—when he convinces the Count to let him go.

The brown suit tonight. With the blue tie that matches his eyes and always makes him feel a bit steadier, wearing it on the rare instances he has to be in court.

He's a lawyer, after all. And tonight he'll plead his goddamned case.

Chapter Text

"I'm an orphan, you know."

Jonathan's standing by the lit fireplace, one arm draped along the mantle and the other tucked neatly into his pocket. The Count is halfway-sprawled across the settee a couple of yards away. It feels good to stand above him for once—and Jonathan is holding his eye.

He says, "My mum liked to go on about my father being Mick Jagger or whoever, but I'm about ninety-nine percent sure that was just a load of rubbish to cover for the fact that she didn’t actually know who he was. I don't remember much else." He pauses. "I was five when she died."

"My condolences," Dracula says, though his expression remains impassive.

"Old news." Jonathan shrugs, shifting slightly. "It was the late sixties, you know, and there wasn't a lot they could do about the cancer once it had metastasized. It was over quickly at least, and then my grandmother took me in. She was good to me. She never let me go without, though we lived off her pension so there was also never much extra of anything. It was fortunate she owned the house outright."

"And your grandfather?"

"Dunkirk," Jonathan says simply. And after Dracula nods in recognition: "Anyway, I was always rather good at entertaining myself. I read a lot, and to my great fortune, a girl my age lived two doors down. We hit it off quite splendidly."

Mina. She must be wondering what's become of him by now. Hell, she might've called his office—or the police—or the bloody consulate—

Abruptly, he realizes he doesn't remember how long he's been here.

The panic he's thus far kept at bay rises in his chest; it would be so easy to give in... No. Not now. Not with the Count holding his eye—not when he has the vampire's attention.

After a long moment, he says: "So well, in fact, that some twenty years later... we wound up engaged."

"You make it sound as if it was a matter of happenstance."

"It was, in a way. Everyone just expected it of us. And it was what we wanted—what I thought I wanted."

"And what do you want, Jonathan?"

"I want to live," Jonathan says. "I'm thirty-three, but I've only just got to a place in my life where I can be myself, on my own terms. I'm out at the fucking office. D'you know how much of a relief that is? Hell, I've known I'm queer since I was nine, but I was too scared to do anything about it—not to mention the fucking virus—" He sucks in a breath. "But eventually, I had to stop lying to myself. Our breakup was amicable. Mina has always been my best friend. Do you see?"

"Yes," says Dracula. "I believe I do." To Jonathan's surprise, he tucks his long frame closer into one side of the settee, then pats the velvet upholstery beside him. "Please. Sit down."

God help him, Jonathan does.

Chapter Text

"You're afraid."

"Yes."

"That I'm going to kill you."

"Yes."

"Hm." Dracula nods slightly, eyeing Jonathan up and down before asking, "Tell me... how many people do you think have died by my hand?"

Jonathan blanches. "I don't—I couldn't possibly—"

"Guess."

"Thousands," Jonathan says, acutely aware he's going off-script. Dracula is even nearer to him now than when he'd sat reading by Jonathan's bedside; Jonathan can almost feel his weight, offset by their shared cushion. His hair is down again tonight. He has his legs crossed loosely at the knee, an arm halfway dangling over the back of the settee: in his black button-down with the cuffs rolled to his elbows, the picture of casual elegance.

And an unrepentant monster.

"Tens of thousands," he confirms, "not to mention the scores of soldiers slain under my command as a warlord. The fact that we're even having this conversation puts you in a better position than...oh...almost all those who came before you, if it makes you feel any better."

"It doesn't."

"Come, Jonathan. Don't tell me you would've preferred me to simply kill you in your sleep."

"I'd prefer not to be killed at all!" Jonathan blurts out. And then, calmer: "You enjoy my company. You've said so."

"So I have." Dracula tilts his head. "Which is why I've decided to give you a choice. Tell me: how would you like to spend the time you have left?"

Jonathan blinks. Then he asks, "What are my options?"

"Well. We can continue on as we have been, reading The Hobbit – which, I must say, I've been enjoying very much," says Dracula, leaning forward just enough that his knee brushes against Jonathan's, "or...I could show you my castle."

"I've seen your bloody castle."

"No you haven't. Not really. Not the good parts."

And Dracula already said it, didn't he? Game or no, Jonathan's in a better position than most of the vampire's previous victims. He has time—and by getting more familiar with the castle, he'll have information too.

Hell, maybe he'll even discover some way to contact the outside world.

He still has a shot at escape.

"Yes," he says. "All right."

"That's the spirit." Dracula smiles with genuine pleasure. "By the way, I spoke with your employer today."

Jonathan sits quickly upright. "Mr. Hawkins? You spoke with Peter Hawkins?"

"Yes. Your people are looking for you."

"You mean—"

"Most peculiarly, according to local authorities, you were last reported seen boarding a train to Klausenburg," Dracula says. "Of course, said local authorities are sympathetic to my need to maintain privacy: they'll make no attempt to investigate here."

Jonathan sucks in a breath. Yes, he's fucking afraid. But the only way onward is through.

Best not overthink it.

"Well, in that case," he says, glancing at the Count over the rims of his glasses, which for a moment leaves him looking a bit softer around the edges—though his gaze is no less brazenly, beautifully bright, "what're we waiting for?"

Chapter Text

One of Jonathan's earliest memories is of riding a train with his mum.

The whys and wherefores have long since faded; the memory itself may reflect a single event, or a convergence of several. He could have been two years old, or four, and just as likely going on a trip out of town as within it.

But none of this matters to the crux of the thing, the moment which Jonathan has been reconjuring for years: staring out the window of the railway car into the golden evening (or is it morning?), seeing another train going away from the platform, and thinking with great certainty that it's his own train going instead.

The disorienting sensation of movement when none exists—except in his own head.

Fascinating.

Long since, he's made attempts to research the phenomenon—online message boards and the like, and at the risk of being tractor-beamed into a neurochem dissertation – read: after a couple of pints – he'd once asked Jack about it, nodding along as terms like vection and illusions of self-motion, neural adaptation and vestibular disruption rolled off his friend's tongue.

It's mostly over Jonathan's head. But again and again he's observed it himself, thoughts idling in between tube stops; his brain inducing almost physical feeling because that's what it believes he should be experiencing. He knows his senses have the power to deceive him—and maybe such perceptive uncertainty mightn't be too far off from what it must be like to truly let oneself go...

Well. Maybe this too has been a deception. It's of course possible to be two fundamentally different things at once.

The stillness needn't preclude the motion.

*

That night, Dracula takes Jonathan back to the library—

And Jonathan is all in a sea of wonders.

There's dread, and worry too—not to mention a healthy dose of disbelief that any of this is real—but nothing compares to the feeling when Dracula reaches for a book on one of the far shelves in that wide, moonlit space, pulling it out until there's a click and the entire wall begins to slide slowly sideways, revealing a second, yet larger room beyond.

The feeling of awe.

The feeling, when it comes down to it, of being part of something bigger than himself.

Because Dracula is inviting Jonathan to follow him into the shadows. Or not quite: hasn't Jonathan been reading about things like this his whole life? He knows this place from the yearnings of his heart.

And yes, it's real.

Rows of armor and weaponry of varying age and origin polished to a shine, artifacts and antiques that would make the British Museum salivate, tapestries and paintings and bronzes and marbles, manuscripts and parchments dating back a thousand years or more. Gold and silver, coins and currency, jewels of every color and cut piled in heaps—

Riches beyond comprehension.

A trove fit for a dragon.

And him too, turning now to smile most charmingly and ask, "Well, Jonathan? Fancy a look around?"

Chapter Text

"Wait," says Jonathan. "Are you telling me that you knew Mozart?"

"I'm telling you, Jonathan, that I killed Mozart." Dracula says with a pleased sort of half-smile. "Wrote me such a pretty little tune, by way of thanks."

Jonathan understands Dracula is expecting him to recoil at this revelation—or at least question it. But instead he presses on, saying lightly, "Perhaps you'll play it for me, one of these nights."

"Perhaps." Dracula smiles in earnest. At his feet, Bersicker snores in his sleep. Little wonder: he'd spent the day by Jonathan's side as Jonathan took full advantage of his newly regained daytime run of the castle. Like before, all the ways leading outside were locked, but now knowing of the secret door in the library, he'd begun combing the place for an alternate means of escape.

It made him feel a little like one of the more dodgily-methodical BBC detectives, and for a while kept his mind off the sheer horror of his reality, but was ultimately fruitless. By the time Dracula came round with his dinner, he was feeling tired and glum—and likewise relieved at Dracula's company.

"So, you've been acquainted with Akira Kurosawa, Oscar Wilde, Catherine the Great, C.S. Lewis, Casanova… and Mozart," he says presently, lifting his wine glass to his lips—only to find it already drained. Easy, Johnny, he thinks. And then: "Anyone else?"

"That I knew… or killed?"

"Knew."

"Jane Goodall."

"Jane Goodall?" Jonathan echos, leaning forward in his seat.

"Absolutely fascinating person," Dracula says. "Did you know she lived as an active member of a chimpanzee troop for nearly two years?"

"I didn’t," Jonathan says. "Have they… Have any of these people… known about you?"

"What, that I'm a 'foul, friendless creature of the night'?" Dracula drawls. Jonathan's own words, two nights ago already. They sound callous now—but he stops himself before he can apologize.

Eventually Dracula goes on, "No. Well… Except Wolfgang, of course. And I suspect old Clive knew something. He was perceptive about certain things, in his own way, and I wrote to him the longest."

The thought of Dracula being a long term pen-pal to C.S. Lewis baffles Jonathan as much as it delights. He smiles, despite himself. "What is it really like, being immortal?"

Dracula gives him a long look. Then: "Lonely," he says, "until one learns how to entertain oneself."

Jonathan swallows. "Is that why you're going to England? To entertain yourself?"

"Yes, in a way. There's also… Well. Let's just say a very old friend of mine has lately caught my attention, and I think it's high time I paid her a visit."

"Her?"

"Dr. Zoe Helsing, President and CEO of one of the largest biotech firms in the world," says Dracula. "But when I knew her, she was called Sister Agatha."

Jonathan's stomach clenches tightly. Helsing Biotech—isn't that where Mina just started working? Shit. He ventures, "And when was that?"

"Oh, about a hundred years ago, give or take."

Chapter Text

Dracula continues, "Agatha Van Helsing was to be my protégé—my partner—my bride, in every sense of the word. I'd never met anyone like her. She was… capable. We fought over everything. And she got closer to doing me off for good than anyone else in my five hundred years of existence."

"And she…" Jonathan trails off with a shiver. Then: "She's a vampire too?"

"By my doing, in fact."

"You deliberately turned her?"

"Well. Not quite. Procreation hasn't been easy for me, despite a lot of trying." Dracula smiles, sharp as a knife. "I can't choose who will rise again. Not with any accuracy, and besides, I've told you: most of the people I feed on just die."

"But Dr. Helsing—Sister Agatha didn't."

"No. As became apparent when I attempted to take her to England with me."

"You said she almost killed you."

"Sinking our ship in the process. The Demeter was an elegant vessel—a proper sailing schooner I'd gone to some lengths to commission, and only under the strictest rules of discretion. I'd even gone so far as to personally select the passenger list," Dracula says, as blithely as if he were describing what he had for lunch.

Which in fact, Jonathan realizes, isn't so far from the truth.

Dracula sighs, "A few weeks after we left Varna, my well-laid plans began to go a bit… askew. We were in sight of land, but by that time there was hardly anyone left to steer the ship, let alone put out the fire. Demeter went down five miles off the English coast."

"But you weren't the only survivor."

"I didn't know that at the time. The blaze was substantial: I couldn't fathom Agatha, or anyone else still aboard, had made it out. It was all I could do to find shelter before the dawn came: grievously injured, I pried open one of the crates I'd been storing in the cargo hold, crawled inside—and woke up here."

"How?"

"Shipping documents," says Dracula, "retrieved from the wreckage. Of the twenty boxes of earth I shipped from the castle, two returned. And here I slept, comatose, for over forty years."

The tension in the room is palpable. Dracula is so close. He's holding Jonathan's eye, and Jonathan longs for a cigarette—another glass of wine—any distraction from the prickling feeling in his limbs; his chest; his mind: the instinctive desire to flee.

His next words should be chosen with care. And so: "That's a long time to go without using the toilet."

For a moment, Dracula looks vexed. Then his eyebrows arch in unison, his features softening curiously. "That was a joke," he asks, "wasn't it?"

"Yeah," says Jonathan. "You don't ever, do you?" And then, when Dracula shakes his head: "Small bright side, I suppose."

"I suppose."

"Is there anything you do miss about being alive?"

Dracula takes his time answering. Then: "My dear boy, I don't even remember what it was like to be alive."

Chapter Text

Eggs and bacon and sausages and mushrooms with herbs, beans in a bowl, a plate of sliced tomatoes and another of toast with butter and jam: of all confounding, devious things, the Count has made Jonathan a bloody fry-up.

His stomach rumbles audibly.

And hell. He's only human.

While he's waiting for the heaped spoonful of Darjeeling he'd tipped into the silver pot to steep, he makes use of the rudimentary toilet, his mind wandering…wondering…

Unable to ignore the fact that the meal is still piping hot. Dracula must have only just come by.

The thought of being observed while asleep makes Jonathan shiver with a strange thrill—quickly, he looks around. The curtains are closed against the late morning sun, leaving the suite's lighting up to the few candles still burning from the night before. In the gloom he can only make out what's immediately around him: the vanity; the basin; the striped M&S pajamas Mina gave him three Christmases ago.

His cock, heavy in his hand.

He'd woken up hard, and like every night since his arrival, chasing the fading vision of his reoccurring dream. But more: he'd woken up aroused.

Unbidden, the image of his captor appears in his mind. Dracula had been pleased when Jonathan complimented his surgery skills, but demurred when Jonathan questioned how his wound could have healed so quickly.

"Is it not enough to be well?" the vampire asked him, thumb circling the tender skin on Jonathan's side, making him break out in goose pimples—

Jonathan sucks in a breath as he strokes himself now, teasing down his shaft and then up again, flicking over the slick bead of precome and spreading it round.

Fuck. It's not enough.

But there's a bottle of lube in his bag that soon has him working himself in earnest: And then – he's almost breathless in his own thoughts – and then his hand went up my torso, over my heart…

Dracula's touch had been so cold. His long, splayed fingers no doubt feeling Jonathan's shaky reply: "Gifts from the gods are said to come at great expense."

At this Dracula smiled. His hand was on Jonathan's neck. His throat.

And Jonathan's close. He has his free arm braced along the vanity, holding him steady as he pistons into his fist, his pleasure mounting in flickering waves.

His heart had been pounding. There was real hunger in Dracula's eyes.

For a moment, he thought Dracula would take him.

For a moment, he thought he wouldn't mind.

"Oh fuck," he half-groans, tensing in a climax strong enough to curl his toes.

And again, coming back to himself: "Oh. Fuck."

*

"I know what you're thinking. It's tempting to examine the schematics of such a fantasy," Jonathan says, tossing a nub of bacon in Bersicker's direction, which the beast promptly devours. "My analyst's going to have a field day with all this."

His tea is over-steeped; over-sugared to mask the bitterness.

"But whatever else, I do feel a bit better."

Chapter Text

The Count takes Jonathan to the laboratory that night.

Jonathan doesn't know what he was expecting. Eyeballs and salamanders suspended in multicolored goo? Arcs of electricity and buzzing conductors, tubes and vials and pipes suspended in elaborate configurations? Maybe even an experiment-in-progress, writhing horribly on a slab.

But in actuality it's a clean, well configured space stocked with ordinary if expensive-looking equipment. Stainless steel everything, and there: a trio of desktop computers, the monitors gone to screensaver mode.

Flying fucking toasters.

Something shifts in Jonathan—because that's it, isn't it? Despite his deepest worries, the world outside this prison is there, right there, if only he can reach out and grab it—

"Beyond the central lab," Dracula is saying, crossing now to a centrifuge and pushing a couple of buttons on it, causing it to whir to life, "I've two processing rooms, a variable temperature chamber, and another for sterilization."

"What are you studying?"

"Oh, I've dabbled in any number of disciplines. But my primary interest has always been blood."

Jonathan shivers, despite himself. "Hematology, you mean."

"And so much more. Come. I've something else to show you."

Jonathan follows Dracula down a side-corridor to a flight of stairs which narrows alarmingly on the descent, until they reach a dim, cavernous room packed with wooden crates.

"My overflow library," Dracula explains, catching Jonathan scrutinizing the markings on one. "I just can't bring myself to part with a good story." He smiles, most charmingly. "Now where are those Tesla papers, I only just had them…"

While the vampire shuffles through a stack of folios, Jonathan surveys his surroundings. The crates create a sort of labyrinth around them, obscuring the view, but he spots a workbench positively groaning with all manner of mechanical parts, wires, and circuitry.

And to the other side: a shrine.

Or close to it. Clippings and cutouts, bound volumes of periodicals, audio cassettes and VHS tapes with hand-labeled spines, photographs in Kodachrome and grainy black-and-white, and at the center, an oil portrait of Dr. Helsing – Sister Agatha, Jonathan reminds himself, shaken by the eerie likeness – so vividly wrought he finds himself almost transfixed by woman's dark, inquisitive stare.

When he looks away, it's to find Dracula by his side.

It takes everything in him not to jump out of his bloody skin.

"I often see her," he says, shakily, "on the evening news."

"Yes, well, I suppose faking one's own death to come back as a great-great-grandniece twice removed must rather put a spring in one's step," Dracula says, matter-of-factly. "I've managed to collect most of her output—even the early editorials, published under a number of amusing pseudonyms… It's fortunate that death didn't claim her wit."

"But you're the one who killed her."

Dracula shrugs.

"Do you ever… regret taking someone's life?"

"Do you ever regret the sandwich you ate for lunch?"

"Sometimes, yes," says Jonathan, chancing a level glance at the vampire.

Dracula tilts his head, ever imperious. But eventually he says, "No. Never even once."

Chapter Text

"I don't believe you," Jonathan shoots back, incredulous, before he can stop himself.

Dracula's eyes narrow by a degree. "What?"

"I—" Oh, hell. Does Jonathan have a fucking death wish? Because the lawyer in him, suddenly awoken, refuses to let this go. "I don't believe you could've killed all those people as a soldier—or even as a vampire—and not found it within yourself to mourn a single one of them. You, who's lived a dozen mortal lifetimes, who's watched empires rise and fall… You, who professes to be learned." He draws in a shaky breath. "To have an interest in humanity. But if you understood a bloody thing about what all those writers, those musicians and philosophers you so claim to admire have been going on about—"

"Enough."

"—maybe you'd make your time actually mean something. But instead you haunt the ruins of glories long past. You've spent hundreds of years feeding off the world when you could've helped it—"

"Enough," Dracula growls, swinging his fist outward in an arc, handily missing Jonathan but making contact with the nearest wooden crate. The thing breaks open with a crack, and debris and dust and – as the Count said – books cascade from the wreckage, as well as—oh god.

Bodies.

Human bodies. At least ten of them spilled across the floor in varying age and condition, some skeletons and others simply withered down down to a husk, almost mummified—people, packed away like so many sardines and then left to decay, forgotten.

"Oh shit." Jonathan stares down at the mess and wonders madly whether the Count keeps all his victims as trophies... or worse? "Oh shit, oh shit."

It's then that one of the corpses jerks to life.

"Ahh!" Jonathan reels backward, tripping over his own feet and slamming against another crate – was that an answering thump from inside? – boxing himself in.

Or nearly: the only way out is through his captor.

Dracula's eyes have gone fully red, almost glowing with fury, a terror to behold as he reaches for the scrabbling corpse – it's blinded, but it still has its attention fixed on Jonathan, dry jaws snapping hungrily as it continues to lunge for him – and tosses it away.

Then he turns to Jonathan.

Jonathan shrinks back, terrified beyond all measure—

Breathe, Johnny, he tells himself. Just breathe.

But there's nothing for it: panic sets over him like a pall, tightening his chest. Dracula's grimace is set with a line of long, pointed teeth. Fangs. Nothing if not for tearing flesh: a supernatural adaptation built for murder—a biological advantage present in apex predators—and Jonathan is frozen in his tracks.

To his side, more of the corpses have begun untangling themselves from the pile.

It's a nightmare. It's too much for a man to bear.

Dracula is closer now, seeming larger than he ought. Blacker. Wider, or maybe that's just Jonathan's vision fading out round the edges. "Please," he says, so softly. Let it be quick.

And then: darkness.

Chapter Text

"Ahh!" Jonathan screams, thrashing his limbs wildly about, but it's no use: the monsters have him.

They're everywhere.

He's pinned, by god, he can't move, can't get away—the darkness has him—and he screams again, "Somebody help me! Please!" And again: "Count Dracula!"

This last attempt comes out rather more muffled, the fabric over Jonathan's face going taut as he struggles to break free from...from the...from the bed covers?

He's back in bed.

His own goddamned bed.

"Oh, holy fuck," Jonathan pants, at last extracting his head from the heavy brocade coverlet. Dazedly, he looks about him, picking out shapes in the half light, his satchel by the chair and his overcoat on its hook – his laptop, still set open on the desk, and still dead as a bloody doornail – familiar shadows all.

Nothing to fear.

The thought turns Jonathan's deliberately steady exhale into a rapid little chuckle—and then an all-out laugh. Heaving, gulping guffaws with ratcheting release, and short snorts that hitch in his throat, until his entire frame is shaking with the effort of barely keeping himself contained—until his eyes are watering from the growing cramp in his ribs, and just like that, he's crying.

Weeping, really, though who's counting. There's no one here to see him for several long minutes let the tears run freely down his face; nor blow his nose, through strangled moans, into the expensive cotton sheets; nor hug himself tightly in his own arms and feel fucking relieved to simply still be alive.

*

After a while, Jonathan cleans himself up as best he can without leaving the bed.

Dracula had deposited him here fully dressed—shoes included, the bloody devil, so he toes these off first, letting them clank soundly to the floor one after the other, followed by his socks and trousers. Off next come his jacket, tie, shirt, and vest, and though his boxers appear to be unsoiled, he slides these off too.

He's...exhausted. Well and truly knackered, body and mind. Why bother to check the door when he already knows it to be locked? Better to, with pleasure, slide naked into the bedding and at last allow himself a bit of rest.

*

Jonathan had only been five when he stopped believing in Father Christmas, but he still remembers the time before, when the thought that something magical might happen while he slept – that a wish most dearly wanted might become real – seemed not only possible but likely, filling him crown to toe with a pleasure akin to ecstasy.

It's not far off from what he feels right now. By his bedside sits a modest spread, the usual toast and tea, with one exception: a card leaned up against the carafe. A note.

He reads it. Then he reads it again to be sure—but yes: there's no mistake. The vampire's sloped penmanship promises something new.

A wish dearly wanted.

A chance.

He'll breathe the free air tonight: Dracula has offered to take him outside.

Chapter Text

The moon is full—or nearly.

Silver streaks filter through the windows, illuminating the way as Jonathan follows Bersicker down several corridors and at last to the grand hall. The animal descends the staircase in half a dozen fluid, bounding movements, and Jonathan finds himself eagerly on its heels, taking the stairs two at a time while his heart threatens to pound right out of his bloody chest.

Because the doors are open.

The doors are open and he's walking through them, out into the night.

Pity there's no time to bask in it. Jonathan's getting better at keeping pace with Dracula's pet, though it often selects the quickest – and most direct – routes to their final destination, leaving Jonathan struggling through more than a couple of tight spots.

Nevertheless he breathes deep of the spring-thawing mountains, the air perfumed with damp earth, and tender leaf shoots thrust through the ground, and all the ancient woods waking up.

And something in him responds in kind.

It's another couple of minutes before Bersicker stops. They're on the edge of a small clearing, and Jonathan can see the flicker of lamps up ahead. He wonders, abruptly, what might happen if he simply runs—gets himself away from here and—

As if in response, Bersicker looks at him and lets out a warning growl.

Jonathan shivers, turning away to deal with a couple of burrs attached to his jeans, but after that there's nowhere to go but forward. As he gets closer, he can make out a small encampment, thick rugs set round a modest bonfire, and artfully stacked pillows in lieu of chairs.

At the center stands Dracula himself. Alternating bands of shadow and firelight dance across him, and his face is almost entirely obscured as he says in a low rumble, "Good boy."

Jonathan's stomach clenches tightly—hotly—and he opens his mouth before realizing that the Count is in fact addressing Bersicker. He takes something out of his pocket and tosses it away, watching the beast run after it before meeting Jonathan on the edge of the camp.

He's wearing a delicately embroidered tunic, black threading and bead-work on raw black silk, parted at the neck to reveal curling chest hair and the pale plane of his throat. Jonathan has noticed that the vampire's age seems to fluctuate from night to night, from older to younger to younger still, and back again. It worries him, vaguely, to think on it too much. And yet: tonight there are crow's feet in the corner of Dracula's eyes, and his beard is more grey than black; the hair at his temples is fully white.

He looks, in a word, good.

"Hello, Jonathan. I like your shirt."

"Oh." Jonathan glances down at the vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt he'd bought in Portobello Road some ten years before: with the leather jacket, in fact what he'd planned to wear in Bucharest, on the sight-seeing tour he'd missed, because Dracula took him.

What's there to say except: "Thanks."

Chapter Text

Just then arises the howling of wolves.

One to start – Bersicker, presumably, still nearby – then another and another until the air seems saturated by their chorus, so much more visceral than the times before. Jonathan swallows shakily, his pulse quickening. The sky, bright with a wash of stars even amid the prevailing moonlight, seems to shift above him, the ground to tremble beneath his feet, and with the blackness of the forest surrounding him he can imagine he's stood on the edge of the world.

But for him.

Dracula.

After so many days of confusion and confinement, Jonathan never expected how vulnerable release might make him feel. And how much his body might yearn for shelter.

Oh yes, he bloody well gets the message.

"Listen to them, the children of the night," the Count says, his eyes gleaming. "What music they make."

When he makes a quick motion with his hand, Jonathan joins him by the fire.

*

"What did you call this again?" Jonathan asks once Dracula's finished topping off his glass.

"Tokaji," Dracula says, "leftover from the last time I had a proper guest at the castle."

"A hundred years ago?"

"Give or take. Perhaps you could say I was saving it for a special occasion."

Right. The picnic from hell, Jonathan thinks sullenly, though the wine pairs well enough with the board of cheeses and cured meat on offer for his dinner—sweet and thick, almost sticky across his tongue, and in the flickering light quite the same shade as... that stuff Dracula's pouring from his own unlabeled bottle.

Blood. Had Jonathan ever really thought otherwise?

"I'm surprised you're able to keep it from coagulating," he offers, after a moment, struggling to remember something relevant from the any number of three AM cram sessions he'd sat through with Mina. "And at room temperature, no less."

Dracula is in the most relaxed posture Jonathan's yet seen him, halfway lounged across a couple of dense pillows, his long legs crossed before him. He takes a sip from his glass and says, "Thanks to a fortification process of my own design, perfected over several decades... though these days I just pay a butcher to do it for me." Another sip, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes flutter closed. Then: "No matter how hard I try, I can't trick myself into believing it's the real thing."

"What do you mean?"

"Pig's blood," Dracula says, setting Jonathan with a level stare. Then the corner of his mouth quirks up. "D'you suppose it counts as going vegan?"

Jonathan's mind flashes back to the creatures he'd encountered in the library—the absolute horrors in the crypt—hell, even Dr. Helsing, vampire scientist extraordinaire. All of Dracula's untold victims, going back through history. And why? He asks, incredulous, "You mean you can live off the blood of animals?"

"I wouldn't call it living." And then, catching the dawn of realization in Jonathan's expression: "That's right. You'll be my first human in quite some time."

Chapter Text

"...and I intend to savor you, Jonathan Harker, until your last drop."

Dracula has such a smile on his face as he says this – sharp and indulgent in equal measure – that Jonathan has to look away. He asks, "Is that why we're here? Why you let me leave the castle?"

"I let you leave the castle because it's a beautiful night and I fancied civilized company with whom to share it," says Dracula. Then: "But yes, patience was never my strong suit: a hundred years ago, you wouldn't have lasted more than a day or two."

Bristling with indignation, Jonathan still doesn't meet Dracula's eye. "This is a game to you. I never had a chance of escaping."

"Obviously."

Jonathan lets out a choked-off little laugh. Then he tips his glass back and empties it in a single gulp. He feels the sticky liquor trace a path down his throat and into his belly, warming him through his core.

"Tell me," Dracula urges, "why you came here."

"You know why," says Jonathan, automatically. "For work."

"No. The real reason."

Jonathan shakes his head. Why? To impress his boss? His friends?

"Because it seemed like an adventure."

Jonathan's cheeks are burning. His heart's bloody pounding. And maybe it's only the wine gone to his head – or the aroused terror twisting his thoughts – but Jonathan feels suddenly stripped down and seen by the man sitting across from him. This monster.

What point is there in lying?

He says, "D'you know how much effort just going outside my door takes me some days? And so I—I haven't really done anything before. Never in my whole fucking life. Nothing out of the ordinary or to be proud of—not the sort of thing worth a story. No. My stories always have a way of belonging to other people.

"And now, after everything, it seems this last one's yours. You'll take my thoughts. My emotions. All my little neuroses. And yet you somehow think that by drinking my blood, you'll be better able to pass—Well, have fun with that. "

The Count's gaze locks with Jonathan's. For a long moment, the only thing to be heard is the crack and sizzle of the fire; the wide world beyond them goes still. And then: "Are you finished?"

Jonathan swallows, his mouth suddenly gone dry. "Yes," he says. "I suppose I am."

"Good." Dracula takes a thoughtful sip from his glass. "You've a bit of fire in you, Jonathan, despite everything. You know… for all your employer's high praise of your abilities, he didn't quite get your full quality across. As it happens, I think you really are a bit special."

"For god's sake, I'm nobody."

The Count takes the glass from Jonathan's hand—not to refill it, as Jonathan guesses, but to set it aside.

Then Dracula shifts to loom directly over him, and in a fluid movement takes Jonathan's face in his hand, tilts his head, and pulls him into a deep, searching kiss.

Chapter Text

Dracula's mouth is cold, his beard rough against Jonathan's cheek, and for once wanting nothing more than to exist in the moment, he melts into the vampire's touch.

The kiss isn't quite like what he'd imagined – and imagined it he had, in varying detail since he'd arrived at the castle: an admission for his unlikely future self to unpack – less tongue and more tooth, the Count now almost biting at Jonathan's lips before delving in again, questing… no: more like claiming.

Of course Dracula will take everything—and a mad rhythm clamors within Jonathan's chest: of course he has only himself left to give.

He kisses back with gusto.

Closer now than they've been before, their bodies nearly aligned along the base of pillows, Jonathan feels aflame in comparison to the other man, warmed by the fire and the wine and the growing hunger within him.

Has he ever been this fucking horny before? No? Another problem for his future self.

Dracula still has a hand on Jonathan's head, his long fingers carding back from his brow line and through his hair. He lifts the other from where he's had it perched on Jonathan's waist, stroking up his torso to rest on his chest, over his heart, the solid weight of it enough to set Jonathan's skin prickling, every inch of him feeling sensitive and eager.

"Fuck," he gasps, halfway whimpering. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Oh, there are so many options. So many ways," Dracula says, grazing his lips over Jonathan's cheekbone. His jaw. The tender skin behind his earlobe. The column of his throat, tasting him with the flat of his tongue, nipping him without breaking the stubble-shadowed skin. "But perhaps, seeing as this is a special occasion, I should leave it up to you."

Then he lifts up to draw Jonathan into an even deeper kiss. Jonathan can feel Dracula's length pressed between their bodies, and shivers to feel his own cock twitch in response.

Fuck—

What the fuck is wrong with him? Bloody hard at at time like this?

"Please," he gasps when he's able to break away. "I want to go home!"

"Not possible."

Dracula kisses him again, harder this time, so that when Jonathan pulls back Dracula's sharp white teeth scratch neatly at the fragile skin of Jonathan's bottom lip. Jonathan lets out a little, "Ah," sound and touches the wound with the tip of his finger, shocked despite himself to see blood.

Immediately, Dracula pulls back from him, almost as if burned—then Jonathan sees that the whites of his eyes have gone red, almost glowing—not with fury—

With lust. "Well," he rumbles, "what do you want?"

Jonathan looks at him – wide-eyed, his face split in a grimace – and wars with himself over oncoming waves of pleasure and fear. Well? What can be said, if this is the end? he thinks, already knowing the answer.

And before he can silence the words, he says, "I want to get laid."

Chapter Text

Dracula's expression turns almost tender. "My dear boy. I hoped you would."

He takes Jonathan's hand, bringing it to his mouth—then licks the blood off Jonathan's finger, his tongue swirling round the tip. Jonathan shivers, any last line of protest flying out the window.

No. He wants this.

When Dracula shifts backward, he takes Jonathan along so that Jonathan's planted on his lap: all the better for Dracula to shuck Jonathan's jacket, far quicker than Jonathan could have done it himself.

He puts his hand on the small of Jonathan's back, his cool fingers slipping below the hem of Jonathan's t-shirt to tease at his skin, making him writhe.

"Mm," Dracula purrs, thrusting upward in return. "You're very hot, Jonathan Harker." He smiles. "D'you know, I've always wanted to say that."

Jonathan thinks back to his early nights in the castle—his reluctant English lessons. How he'd wondered whether the Count was interested in him… and judging by the impressive bulge in Dracula's trousers, his assumptions were right.

Still, he asks, "You mean it?"

"Oh yes."

Dracula doesn't push Jonathan away when he begins parting the laces on his tunic, revealing more of his chest. Impulsively, Jonathan dips in to smell his skin—musk, sandalwood—and something earthy. Ancient.

There's no breath in him, no heartbeat that Jonathan can discern, but somehow this doesn't trouble him. Not with the Count tugging at Jonathan's flies, helping him out of his jeans, and then working at his own clothes until they're both naked, side by side by the fire, kissing deep and long.

And Dracula asks, "Shall I fuck you, dearest?"

Jonathan shivers at the intrusiveness of the pet name, and moreso at Dracula's tone—sultry and promising, and though Jonathan's aware he's on the menu tonight, he reacts on cue.

"Please," he says, rocking forward into the vampire's arms.

Dracula arranges a couple of pillows and guides Jonathan to stretch out on his belly across them. The contact – Dracula's so cold, but so solid, so real – sets Jonathan trembling.

"You're awfully eager," Dracula laughs. "How delightful."

He drapes across Jonathan's back, cock nudging at Jonathan's ass. He breathes into Jonathan's ear, "I could do it to you raw, but I'd prefer to use this lovely personal lubricant I bought at the chemist's. Is that all right?"

Jonathan barely hears him for the rushing in his ears. "Fuck. Yes."

Before long Dracula has himself lined up at Jonathan's hole. Slowly, he slides in, inch by agonizing inch. Jonathan huffs out a whine, letting himself feel everything, and it's good.

Better than he knew it could be. He moves with the vampire, rolling with each impact of his hips, and obliges fluidly when Dracula urges him to kneel.

Then Dracula takes Jonathan's cock in hand. "I want your blood," he says, voice rough.

"Anything," Jonathan whimpers—pinned—ecstatic, the bright, sharp pain of Dracula's teeth sinking into his throat quite enough to drive him over the edge.

And from behind, Dracula moans.

Chapter Text

Jonathan is slow to wake.

His sleep had been deep and dreamless, but regrounding takes effort—he starts with only a few certainties: he's in his suite, in his bed, cocooned in blankets; his body is sore in places it hadn't been before; and it's raining outside.

How nice to focus on nothing more than the patter of heavy droplets.

And then he remembers.

In a flurry, he shoots upright and scrambles out of bed, stumbling to the other side of the room. He's shaking. His heart is threatening to pound right out of his chest, and he's shaking as he raises his hand to feel for what can't possibly be there—

"Oh no," Jonathan huffs, touching the spot with the tips of his fingers, "oh shit."

The wound runs down his throat to the dip of his clavicle, painfully sensitive… but not, it seems, actively bleeding. And even though he doesn't have a mirror to better inspect himself, there's no doubt.

Dracula bit him. Jonathan let himself be bit.

And he'd loved it.

He shivers and pushes the thought away. Anyway, he hadn't been himself. Disoriented and emotional, and of course there's no telling how much blood he lost. On the few occasions he'd donated in the past, he'd nearly passed out by the time the nurse slid the needle from his arm; but now he feels positively lit.

Jonathan screws his eyes shut. He needs to think. But for a while there's just the memory of Dracula's face—after. Would it be wrong to call it astonished? He'd stroked Jonathan's cheek as if Jonathan were something precious and drawn a blanket over them both.

Had Jonathan ever felt so vulnerable—so perfectly at ease as he did last night in the vampire's embrace?

"Nope. No fucking way," he says. Then: "I've got to get out of here."

*

There's no sign Dracula's been round this morning, no breakfast waiting. But there's enough water in the pitcher for Jonathan to swallow his ibuprofen and quench his thirst besides.

He smokes a cigarette and rips a makeshift bandage from one of his shirts, tying it carefully around his neck. Then he picks out his most rugged clothes – intended for hiking: the very thought! – and throws anything that seems useful into his rucksack.

There isn't much. Dracula stole his money and IDs, and his mobile's gone. He pauses, staring down at his laptop. Damned, heavy thing—but maybe worth some decent cash at a pawnshop in Bistrița.

If he makes it to Bistrița.

He shoves it inside, along with his Discman, the fire poker, and a backup pair of shoes, and cinches the bag closed. Resisting the urge to try the locked door again, he crosses to the window.

It takes every bit of his strength, but he gets it fully open. A blast of cold, wet air immediately spatters his face, chilling him; he stifles a groan. Then: slowly, slowly, he climbs out—

One foot after the other.

Never looking down.

Chapter Text

Jonathan is slow to wake.

*

This isn't his room.

The bed is larger than his, higher off the ground and set with four intricately carved wooden posts, and draped with heavy swaths of brocade and velvet. At least a half-dozen animal pelts of varying taxonomy are piled around him, blanketing him to his neck—and between these and the fire roaring in the hearth to his side, he wonders how he can possibly feel so cold—

So still.

Horror cleaves through any lingering sense of comfort. He croaks, his throat as dry as if he'd been swallowing sand, "I—I can't feel my legs."

"You're under sedation," replies Count Dracula from across the room. Without his glasses on, Jonathan can only make out the man's outline, a shadow among shadows.

"Sedation?"

"Mm. A compound of my own design which leaves none of the body...and all of the mind."

"Please—" Jonathan swallows shakily. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Nothing worse than what you've already done to yourself," Dracula rumbles. "Your fall into the river likely saved your life, though not without breaking a good many bones. My wolves found you tangled in a tree root two miles downstream, unconscious but still breathing."

Jonathan remembers none of this—nothing past when he lost his footing on the slick stonework outside his window, and the rush of air on the way down—but from the strange contortion of his legs stretched out before him, he knows there must be truth to it.

His escape failed. He's back in the goddamned castle.

The vampire has him again.

"D'you know, under the right circumstances you might have been carried all the way out to sea? Just imagine... I would've had to call up a proper hunt for you," Dracula continues, almost with relish. "But I would have. For you, Johnny, I would've ripped the whole fucking world apart."

At last Dracula moves to Jonathan's bedside, shifting into the light.

Jonathan gasps, "You look young."

And he is: strong and virile and vital, eyes bright and skin flushed and hair gone as dark as a raven's wing, menacing and brutally handsome in a way that makes Jonathan squirm in spite of everything.

"Thanks. I owe it all to you, Johnny."

Jonathan makes himself look away. "No one calls me Johnny."

"You do."

"Right. So I suppose now you've had my blood, you know all about me."

"Yes. Like a lot of mortals, you make many of your decisions out of fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of being different. Fear of not getting what you want—or worse: actually getting it. Fear of your own self." He pauses. Then: "But climbing off the ledge like that—most people simply wouldn't have it in them."

"Lot of good it did," Jonathan says, bitterly. Is it even worth getting ruffled by the vampire's rude summation? He asks again, "What are you going to do to me?"

"Oh," says Dracula, "nothing more than give you life."

Chapter Text

"So get me to a hospital!" Jonathan demands with as much fervor as he can muster: it's a shadow of the churning cloud of panic and sorrow and horror threatening to overtake him, evidently only enough to bring a sardonic curl to Dracula's mouth.

"You know I can't do that."

"Won't."

"If you like. Just the same, without medical attention, you'll die." Dracula is looming over Jonathan now, dominating his view. "And while the idea of operating on you myself poses a certain intrigue... Allow me to offer an alternative."

"What?"

"I can cure you, Johnny... And all you have to do is invite me in."

"What," Jonathan falters as Dracula captures his gaze—and holds it. "What do you mean?"

"My blood."

Somehow Jonathan knew Dracula was going to say that, but it's no less dreadful when he does.

Blood. As if Jonathan's not piqued enough by the sight of his own, whether via paper or pavement or razor, or worse—as if the capital D danger of encountering someone else's hasn't been etched into his psyche since childhood, only to grow roots when AIDS started making headlines, and people a lot like him started to die—

Blood. As if the awful power and intimacy Dracula hints at doesn't shake Jonathan to his core.

Like drawing from a dream, he recalls the vampire's words, uttered only days before but seeming so long ago. "Blood is life."

Now Dracula does smile. "You really are catching on," he says. He tilts his head, and for a moment the tip of his tongue is visible as he runs it over his teeth.

Then, contemplatively: "I daresay you're a step or two ahead already, between this..." He slides his fingers down Jonathan's side, over the spot where those creatures in the library had got him; a mauling that healed in a matter of days, scar-free, faster than any previous injury in his life. "...and the Tokaji the other night."

"The wine?" Jonathan says as realization jolts through him. "You said it was a century old!"

"To your obvious enjoyment," Dracula says with a look of such blatant lasciviousness that Jonathan can't help but blush—furiously—and damn it all, find little comfort in knowing the vampire's blood must have played a part in propelling him into most erotic encounter of his life.

"And mine too, if I'm honest," Dracula says, then leans in to add almost conspiratorially, "though I'm afraid it'll take a bit more than that to get you on your feet again."

Jonathan grimaces, struggling to ignore the memory, rising swiftly in his mind, of their coupling. And how the hell can he justify such a thing? Can the barest possibility of another chance at escape be worth destroying the last vestige of his defenses?

Can he consider it? To live – even for only another day.

He draws in a breath, then lets it out slowly.

He won't know if he doesn't ask. And so: "What do I need to do?"

Chapter Text

"Drink," says Dracula, "from my vein. Allow my blood to appease your thirst, as yours has appeased mine." He sets his hand along Jonathan's jaw, cradling his face—the touch cold enough against Jonathan's feverish skin to make him shiver. At this, Dracula smiles fondly. "Drink, and be flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, kin of my kin."

There's a lilting, almost hypnotic quality to the words; and so too an almost practiced ease. It occurs to Jonathan just how many must have preceded him. Like Dr. Helsing or—oh god— "Like those things? The ones that attacked me?" he asks. "The ones locked away in your crypt?"

"No. You could never become like them, Johnny. You're far too precious to me."

"Like you, then?"

Dracula gives him an appraising look, then says, "Let's hope not."

*

It's been thirteen days since Jonathan boarded flight BA714 from London to Bucharest and from his window seat watched the world recede.

He'd been a ball of nerves. Flying always has that effect on him, but this time it was more for the fact of being on his first solo business trip than the pockets of turbulence the plane encountered midair. In the safety of his mind, he'd rehearsed and rehashed his introductions – how hard could it be to present himself as nothing more or less than a man of earnest integrity, dutifully responsive to his client's needs, as Mr. Hawkins was? – to the mysterious Count Dracula.

Wanting to do his job, and for the Count to put in a good word about him to his firm, and then perhaps fit in a bit of sightseeing before he had to go home.

Wanting, for once, to get everything fucking right.

It's been nine days since Jonathan missed his flight back to London. His letterbox must be overflowing.

He doesn't remember whether his cat's eyes are green or brown.

*

Dracula unbuttons his shirt slowly, revealing the wide plane of his chest an inch at a time, the hair scattered across him gone as dark as the rest.

He looks strong. And like Jonathan is weightless, he lifts him from the bed. He has an arm around Jonathan's back which Jonathan can't feel for the sedative but knows is there, bracing Jonathan over his lap so that Jonathan's face is only a few inches from his own.

"Johnny," Dracula's breath hits in a cool puff against Jonathan's cheek. "My best beloved one. You need only say the word."

Jonathan meets his eye and tells him, "I want to live."

Dracula's intense expression shifts into delighted affection—and murderous too, the sharp tips of his fangs now visible between his lips. "Good boy."

With that, he lifts his free hand to his chest and with one long, claw-like nail, slices into his breast.

Blood – thick, viscous, nearly black in the firelight – wells up along the cut in a matter of seconds, and Jonathan only hesitates for a moment before setting his mouth down upon it.

Chapter Text

The taste is horrible—bitter, oily, metallic, with the whiff of damp earth and things left to decay, dripping cold and slippery over Jonathan's tongue.

He almost gags on it.

But Dracula is there to steady him, his fingers carding through his hair, supporting his head. "Shh, Johnny, it's all right," he says, almost wonderingly. "You're doing so well."

Jonathan shivers. Then he leans back over the wound on Dracula's chest. He's dimly aware of the sticky smear over his cheeks and chin, but at least some of the vampire's blood has made it down his throat. It doesn't occur to him to stop drinking. Like a shot of the best whiskey, each swallow arouses in him a comfortable, lingering warmth—

No, not merely warm—it's an intense heat, seeping into his core—

Scorching, hotter and brighter with each passing moment, a now almost electrical sensation that sizzles through his body all the way to his fingertips, his toes, his cock, and as deep within him as he goes.

Oh god, he thinks, fathoming some fraction of it for the first time, I've invited him in.

He couldn't have known…

How good it would be.

Just then his body heaves sideways in a violent spasm. Then another. Before the third, Dracula adjusts his hold on him, cradling him closer and absorbing most of the impact.

"What—" Jonathan moans. "What's happening?" His face is partly shoved against Dracula's pectoral, so it comes out as more of an, "Mmpf?"

Dracula evidently gets the message. He dips his mouth to the crown of Jonathan's head, kissing him gently. "It's working," he says—and Jonathan hears – but doesn't have time to process – the distinct note of relief. "Darling, your body is healing itself. And considering the damage, things may feel a bit… strange for a moment."

Strange? Understatement of the fucking year.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan can make out the shape of his legs beneath the pile of furs, and they're—writhing. Shaking and shuddering in all manner of unlikely positions. Of their own avail.

"Ahhhh!" he screams, and this at least gets out properly. He does it again for good measure.

"Johnny, Johnny, I need you to stay with me," Dracula says as he repositions them on the bed, shifting Jonathan's view. The canopy fabric above is covered in elaborate embroideries, and it takes a couple of tries at refocusing his eyes for him to make out the picture.

The deep, dark woods.

Jonathan's gaze flicks back to Dracula, sat to his side and once again looming over him. One of his arms rests over Jonathan's chest like a steel bar, and Jonathan knows that no amount of movement on his part will break its hold.

Dracula smiles. "That's right, Johnny. I have you. Now I need you stay with me. Yes, close your eyes, if you like—just stay with me."

It's Jonathan's back that convulses next. But he's only really aware of the sound of Dracula's voice.

Chapter Text

Dracula is my master.

Dracula will be obeyed.

Dracula is the night that never ends.

*

It's... cold But this doesn't bother Jonathan overmuch, nor does the near-darkness prove difficult to navigate—

After all, it's a straight line. A hallway of incomprehensible length, lit by infrequent torches, locked door after locked door—

Ah. Here we are: the one that opens. And Jonathan knows this mammoth plane of carved mahogany, the intricate whorls and curving streaks which in the gloom take on the shade of fresh blood—how they mimic the throb of a heartbeat in the flickering light—and how sweetly one might find oneself lost in their depths—

He sets his hand on the knob, begins to turn it—

And opens his eyes.

A moment passes. Then: tentatively, Jonathan runs his fingertips down the fur draped over his torso and it's… soft… smooth. Real. He draws in a breath and lets it out.

Dracula shifts to his side. "Hello, Johnny. How're you feeling?"

"I'm not sure," says Jonathan, honestly. But a quick mental survey of his body comes back without complaints of pain or discomfort. How does he feel? "Good, I think."

"That's good," Dracula says, dark eyes lit with such intense desire that Jonathan has to look away—to little effect. He couldn't stifle his awareness of the vampire if he tried. Dracula's long frame is stretched so close to him, above the covers but as good as touching.

"Yes," he lets out, a little shakily. He's never woken up like this before: in bed with another man he actually wanted to be with. In bed with someone who's had him so thoroughly. What happened between them had been nothing short of transcendental—and fuck, he smells nice. Is Jonathan really supposed to stay mad at him? In fact he thinks it'd be lovely to kiss him. So he does.

Dracula leans into it, getting a hand round Jonathan's head to draw him nearer. "Oh Johnny, you're going to be a lively one, aren't you? I'm glad," he says, "I decided," and nips lightly at Jonathan's lip, "to keep you." Then he plunges his tongue into Jonathan's mouth, staking his claim.

It's enough to make Jonathan moan. Dracula's touch seems to sizzle at every point of contact, warming Jonathan from without and within—then he bends in closer still.

Jonathan finds himself longing to return the favor. This means he'll have to coax his limbs into action: easier said than done. He feels uncoordinated, almost unwieldy within himself. It takes a little effort to lift into a sitting position. But no sooner than he's got ahold of Dracula's shirtfront does his stomach let out a low, prolonged rumble.

He realizes with some surprise that he's bloody famished.

Dracula smiles delightedly. "You're hungry aren't you?"

"I could just about eat a horse," Jonathan admits.

"No guarantees of that, Johnny, but we'll do our best."

And Jonathan tells himself with the whole of his heart: I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive.

Chapter Text

Jonathan pulls the covers back to discover he's dressed in his new pajamas—the black silk ones he bought before his trip in a rare mood of just in case. What were the odds, he'd wondered even while signing the credit card slip, of meeting someone he fancied enough to be seen in them?

Well. Said someone is presently standing with his hand extended, just out of Jonathan's reach: enough incentive to get Jonathan up and walking. Slowly. One lumbering step after another until he's back in Dracula's arms.

"Marvelous, my dear," Dracula says with a gently inquisitive look to match. He has a hand at the small of Jonathan's back, steadying him. "You're simply a wonder."

Jonathan feels himself blush. Glancing away gives him his first proper look around the room, the curious assortment of artwork and shelves stacked high with books, the writing desk and chair; the Count's clothing and most valued things; the bed at the center; and the thick curtains, closed tight.

*

Like much of the castle, the kitchens are an amalgam of old and new, practical and refined. And what had Jonathan imagined if not edged weapons, veritable instruments of death, sat beside the nine-speed blender? But it's somehow also...lived-in. Almost homey. The wooden table Dracula sits him down at could be any of its kind in a thousand thousand kitchens across the world.

Hell, there are even dirty dishes in the sink.

There's also a newish-looking fridge, industrial-grade stainless steel and three doors wide. Dracula swings the left of these open and retrieves a handful of things, setting them on the counter.

"I really have enjoyed preparing your meals, you know," he says. "I'm so rarely afforded the opportunity to cook."

"The last time you… had a guest. Was it Van Helsing?"

"Agatha was never here," Dracula says sharply. Then, softer: "His name was Francis Renfield. I hesitate to call him your predecessor, though he was a solicitor, like yourself, and much of the reason for his being here was the same."

"Oh," says Jonathan, surprised despite himself. The topic of Dracula's first – and failed – attempt to travel to England a hundred years ago hasn't often been broached between them; he adds the solicitor's name to his list of known quantities and thinks, for a moment, of sweet wine spiked with vampiric blood. And too: the way the part of Dracula's collar accentuates his throat. He asks, "Was he—"

"No," says Dracula. "He was nothing like you, Johnny." Before Jonathan has time to protest, Dracula catches his eye—and holds it. Jonathan gasps, suddenly feeling something within him lurch; and deeper, something within him perk up and listen. "Now then. How would you like your eggs?"

*

Later, after Jonathan has tucked into his second helping, and he's spotted the several dozen corked, unlabeled bottles on the right side of the refrigerator – pig's blood, by Dracula's claim – he asks, "Aren't you having anything?"

And Dracula smiles and says, "I thought I'd save my appetite."

Chapter Text

"Get on the bed," says Dracula, and Jonathan doesn't have to be asked twice, stretching out across the center of the mattress amid the furs and blankets. He's fully naked—they both are, though the details of undressing are as hazy to him as how it was they'd made it back to Dracula's bedroom from the kitchens.

Not that it matters. Not with Dracula here, now, looking at him with such hunger in his eyes.

In a matter of moments, the vampire is prowling forward, moving toward him on the bed; then kneeling, bending, drooping down to capture Jonathan's mouth in a hard, biting kiss. Jonathan gasps and arches up to meet him.

Fuck. He's bloody hard already and Dracula hasn't even touched him.

The anticipatory frisson of what's to come is exquisite; but he knows he's never going to last.

Dracula catches both of Jonathan's wrists and with one big hand pins them above Jonathan's head. Then he dips in to kiss and nip at Jonathan's throat, running his still human-looking teeth over the sensitive flesh where he'd first taken Jonathan's blood.

The spot hasn't fully healed, even though the rest of him has.

He shivers at the tingle of pain and arches up again. When their cocks brush together, he hisses, "Please," not quite knowing what he's asking for but trusting Dracula to decipher the message just the same.

"My darling boy," Dracula hums, deep in his throat. "All my works shall be yours—in time."

Jonathan's legs fall open a little wider, and Dracula takes the opportunity to grind against him in earnest. He doesn't feel as cold as he did before; or perhaps Jonathan's only getting used to it.

With his free hand, the vampire reaches between them, aligning their lengths in his palm and giving them a couple of good strokes.

"Oh fuck," Jonathan yelps, attempting to squirm but held tight. He feels Dracula's laughter against his skin.

"Mm. Thought you'd like that."

It's then that Jonathan realizes the potential of having a lover who can read his mind. For several long minutes, they remain like this, touching and kissing and biting until Jonathan is nearing climax—and once more, Dracula opens his vein for him.

The blood rises to the surface of the cut like water from a spring. It's lovely.

Because this time he's nicked a long nail across his throat, so that when Jonathan leans in to drink it's no trouble at all for the vampire to return the favor, sinking his fangs into Jonathan's neck in the same spot he had before.

It doesn't occur to Jonathan that such a thing should frighten him. Dracula's blood is like fire in his mouth, and paired with the ache of Dracula's bite, sensation sears through him. He comes furiously, messily, trembling in Dracula's arms, electrified and exhausted.

When Dracula releases Jonathan's wrists and settles to his side, Jonathan sees the smudge of red at the corner of his mouth. Then, gratefully, he sleeps.

Chapter Text

"Where do you go," Jonathan wonders, "during the day, when we're apart?"

They've migrated to the bath, where the great claw-footed tub has proven large enough for them both. Jonathan sits slotted between Dracula's long legs, his back to Dracula's front, presently tilting his head so that the vampire can better rinse the soap from his hair.

The water is perfumed with sandalwood, and beneath the suds has gone slightly red.

Dracula says, simply, "I return to my coffin."

"Granddad needs his beauty sleep, does he?"

"Yes. Something like that."

Jonathan finds himself unsurprised by all this—damned if Dracula doesn't look a day over fifty, virile in every way. Just for the thrill of it, and the unlikely fact that he can, he leans round and presses his mouth to Dracula's. The vampire hums in approval. Then he takes things a step further, sliding a hand round Jonathan's shoulder, neatly pivoting him onto his lap so that he can turn it into a proper kiss, lips and tongue and teeth.

When they part, Jonathan says, happily, "I like being naked with you. I never really have, before—with guys—or especially with—" He cuts off, finding that his mind has gone momentarily blank on the matter of…

What had he been trying to say? Of whom had he been thinking?

The shock of not knowing takes his breath away. Panic begins to rise in his chest, like a wave—like cold river water forcing its way down his throat, choking him—pulling him under—breaking him—and he flinches, his expression contorting into something frightful by the swiftness of Dracula's hand coming to his cheek, and the urgency of his words, "Stay with me, Johnny."

"What? What?"

"Shh. It's all right." Dracula's voice is melodic; coaxing. "You were going to say something about Mina."

Jonathan frowns. "Mina?"

"That's right. Mina Murray. Your ex-fiancé."

"Oh," Jonathan says. He's still shaking a bit; but then he meets Dracula's eye and at once begins to relax again. He takes several steadying breaths before offering, "I remember now," with a smile.

Dracula smiles too, as sharp as a knife, so that Jonathan feels almost flayed: exposed, observed, and understood. Despite the numerous candles flickering about them, the room is dim, with even the spots lit brightest the last time Jonathan was here lost in thick shadows.

All the world might as well be shrunk to the narrow space they share between them.

It seems only natural for Jonathan to confide, "D'you know why we broke up? I mean—have you seen it in my blood already, or…"

"Yes, Johnny," Dracula says, his thumb ghosting over Jonathan's bottom lip. Then he lets him go and settles back a bit so that Jonathan can face him fully. "But I'd rather hear it from you."

Jonathan nods. Then he tells the vampire all about how one rainy Sunday afternoon, Mina - brilliant, marvelous Mina - found his secret box of VHS tapes—and everything came out, Jonathan included.

Chapter Text

Dracula's closet might well be a trove unto itself.

Jonathan jumps at the chance to explore it, even if it means not getting a closer look at the papers Dracula presently has spread across the bedroom table. He'd seen enough to know what they are; funny that it hadn't occurred to him that the vampire might be acquiring other properties in London…

He'll have to remember to ask about it later.

But now carefully, reverently, he reaches out to either side of him, where clothing and costumes of all make and measure hang in long rows. Suits in a boggling variety of fashions going back centuries; waistcoats with elaborate embroidery; shirts and trousers and cloaks and coats by the dozen—wool and silk and linen and leather—all of it in a thousand shades of black.

Which is why it's no surprise that the cape with the blood red lining catches his eye. He slides it from the hanger, enjoying the weight of it in his hands for a moment before swinging it round his shoulders. There's a little silver clasp at the throat—broken. So with his left hand, he holds the collar closed, and with his right twirls the hem about himself dramatically.

Then something drops from the pocket.

A book.

Leather-bound and scarcely larger than Jonathan's palm, with bent edges and a cracked, stained cover: the thing looks like it's been through hell. But the sloping inscription on the second leaf—

The Diary of Francis R. Renfield - 1897

—is perfectly legible.

The cape slides into a pool about Jonathan's ankles, forgotten. He flips to a page at random and reads:

Settling in. Most curious, the Count brought my bags to my room himself—but glad for his company. Something about this place sets my nerves on edge—surely only road weariness at last getting the best of me.

Later. Flies on my pillow again, as though it holds some attraction. Mem: 'Where there is flesh, there are flies.' Can't imagine what he could mean.

And flips:

He came to me again last night—without pretense—without mercy.

The bite of the vampire is an opiate; his blood an aphrodisiac. I give myself willingly.

And flips:

Flies! The master promised me flies, and flies are poor things, after all!

By the second half of the diary, Renfield's penmanship begins to badly deteriorate. But Jonathan can still make out the words:

Dracula is God.

Repeated in blotchy ink among other variations besides, each page more jumbled, until the writing trails off and the paper is stained with something other than ink.

"All right, Johnny?"

Jonathan looks up to see Dracula in the doorway, and on impulse tucks the diary away. He smiles awkwardly. "There's just so much to choose from."

Dracula nods, understanding. "Shall I?"

And he does: a tailored silk dressing gown with wide lapels, the subtle leafing pattern the very same shade as Jonathan's eyes—and quite heavy enough to hide the lump in his pajama pocket.

Chapter Text

Renfield's diary vanishes before Jonathan can examine it again.

At first he thinks he simply mislaid it, and then that he must have imagined the damned thing altogether. But the memory of its weight in his hands, the almost cloyingly sweet aroma of old leather and yellowed pages—those fucking words… Well. He just isn't that creative.

Sussing out what it actually means poses a greater challenge. Jonathan's thoughts on the matter coalesce like vapor into droplets, however aimlessly, and he knows that not long ago any such softening of his wits would have disturbed him; instead he sits with the horror as though it's an old friend, as real as anything else in this place.

Which is to say: quite.

*

The sex is also phenomenal.

When he and Dracula aren't going at it in bed, they're often doing so in the library or the treasury or the parlor or the observatory—or wherever else they find themselves on an evening's stroll, Jonathan still hungry to learn of the castle's many hidden treasures.

Then there's the occasion Dracula takes Jonathan to what he can only describe as a pleasure chamber, every conceivable device, toy, and implement of desire set amid a sea of scarlet, silks and shadows, where he discovers what it's like to get fucked on the ceiling.

And here too, in the back of Dracula's car.

The vampire has dozens of vehicles, many of them classic and English-made, parked down the sides of a space so stylish Jonathan boggles to hear it once housed horses. All very nice. But it's the mid-century Mercedes Benz limousine – the car Dracula, all tucked up in his Ray Bans and cap, drove to bring him here—the one with the plush velvet interior and Dracula's ancestral sigil emblazoned on the side – that catches his fancy.

Dracula is more than happy to oblige. They're slotted across the seat and spilling over it, Dracula between Jonathan’s legs, and Jonathan's glad he didn't bother getting properly dressed tonight. The robe slides off easily, all the better for Dracula to press cool kisses – and rake his sharp nails – down Jonathan's sternum, his belly and flanks, before taking his cock into his mouth—then his throat—only coming up for air when Jonathan's nearing climax several blissed-out minutes later.

The vampire's brown eyes are flooded red as he stares up the length of Jonathan's body. Jonathan nods, just once, before Dracula leans back in over Jonathan's thigh—

And sinks his fangs into his femoral artery.

Jonathan arches up, gasping, feeling everything. The wealth of sensation is incredible, a shifting blend of pleasure and pain, and for a while he isn't aware of much more than his own pounding pulse—and Dracula, always.

Once he's finished, the vampire licks Jonathan's wound clean. Then he bites his wrist and holds it out to him, the precious blood bubbling to the surface and beginning to drip down his forearm before Jonathan can catch it—and drink—and drink—and drink.

Chapter Text

"How do you feel?"

A question Dracula asks often of Jonathan, and as ever, one Jonathan strives to answer truthfully.

But he's still coming down. Focusing on anything beyond the beam of pale moonlight streaming through the car's rear window is a challenge. The vampire's blood is unlike any substance he's ever encountered, legal or otherwise – in law school, he'd tried cocaine once to find he hated the stuff, and twice to be sure – heat and energy sparkling through him like a live wire, arousing him wholly.

"What? After the best head of my life?"

Dracula hums. "That's what you said last night."

"Oh." And so, at length: "All right. I suppose I feel like myself. Moreso than I ever have before, as if I'd only been living as a sort of shadow until now… No. I'm not making sense."

"But you are, my dear, " says Dracula. "Perfect sense."

Something in Jonathan perks up, glad to hear this.

What's more: he feels good. Like he's actually present in his body—like he's where he's meant to be—and it's good. He lets out a breath and idly strokes his hand over the seat beside him, the velvet upholstery wonderfully soft to the touch. Then something occurs to him: a point of curiosity. He moves upwards, using his full reach to get past the partition and into the driver's compartment, and clicks the EJECT button on the stereo.

The cassette tape he retrieves isn't quite what he was expecting. "Best of Queen?"

"Freddie Mercury was a genius," Dracula rumbles back.

"Oh, no, I can't argue that." Settling back into the vampire's arms, Jonathan inspects the track listing before commenting, "This is a different version from the one I…had, I suppose. When I…left you, I had my CDs in my pack, my player too—"

"Bag? You had a bag with you?" And then, perhaps because Jonathan's expression has gone blank, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly on end, the vampire soothes: "Never mind. Just stay with me, Johnny… That's it. Now, you were saying something about the tape."

Jonathan shivers. "I was? Yes, er—must be a Euro release."

Dracula holds his eye for another moment before nodding, his mouth curling back into a smile. "Must be." He extends his hand and Jonathan sets the tape into it. And then Jonathan smiles too.

"I really do love this car. Let me guess: one owner from new?"

"As a matter of fact, it's more like spoils of war."

Jonathan's eyebrows shoot up. "That sounds like quite the tale."

"Yes," Dracula agrees. He pauses, considering. Then: "After my failure aboard Demeter, I fell comatose."

"For forty years…"

"That's right. But I've not told you what it was that woke me. You see, a couple of researchers from Hitler's Ahnenerbe had heard about this castle—and the monster who was said to have once called it home." The vampire's eyes are positively gleaming. "Suffice to say, Johnny, they found me."

Chapter Text

"The halls ran red, slick with offal and the blood of my enemies, as they hadn't for centuries. Over two hundred men in total, most of them in the prime of their lives," says Dracula. "I rather lost myself to it. The killing…

"And the chaos. Their artillery was impressive, more advanced than anything I'd ever seen, but ultimately futile." He shrugs, describing the scene as matter-of-factly as if he'd been describing train tables. "I'd been asleep for a long time. I was—what's that I've heard you say? Hangry? It wasn't until the night was over that I understood who they were."

The vampire's gaze has gone vaguely distant at the memory, and Jonathan attempts to imagine the horrible scene, taking a couple of moments before prompting, "What happened?"

"The Nazis reported their expedition lost, though they were apparently undecided on whether to blame the decimating fire here at the castle or the ravenous wolves surrounding it. They never dared return." Dracula tilts his head. "By the bye, you've met some of the leftovers."

"You mean the revenants?"

"That's right. As brainless in death as they were in life… You were frightened."

It's a fact – and when has Jonathan ever stopped being frightened, ever since he arrived at this place? – but it feels somehow once-removed, or as if his encounter with those monsters was something he'd once seen in a movie, even as he finds himself agreeing softly, "Terrified." Then: "What happened to you, after?"

"I did as I always do: I survived." Dracula slides down the car seat a bit, letting Jonathan fit neatly into his side. He smells of dark things hidden in the earth and has no heartbeat that Jonathan can detect, but his breath ruffles Jonathan's hair as he speaks. "I'd had bad blood before, but this was something else entirely. The depth of their hatred—the twisted mechanism of their zealotry—threatened to engulf me. I lost two entire wings of my memory palace for my trouble—

"And I swore off people, for a while. Thought I'd do better sticking to books."

Jonathan shifts sideways enough to look into the vampire's eyes. His expression is alluring, and so too unsettlingly unguarded. "Until me."

"Yes," says Dracula. "I knew I'd need a real virgin to pull me out of my rut." He grins suddenly, wickedly, setting his finger astride Jonathan's lips to silence any protest. "Not like that. I mean only that you were pure of heart, Jonathan Harker. "

Jonathan swallows. "And now?"

"And now I think I shall have you again."

*

Later, much later, when they're back in the library, fucking on the beautiful hearthrug—the wide fire roaring with a fresh log—Jonathan spots the charred postcards among the ashes.

Castles of Romania, Mountains of Romania, Delicacies of Romania, Traditional Dress of Romania, and the words he'd written to Mina: Thought you'd enjoy this recipe for paprika hendl; had something similar on the train from Bucharest—wow! by now burned to a crisp.

Chapter Text

The tuxedo fits Jonathan better than any garment he's ever worn—like it was made for him.

He takes his time getting dressed.

Without a mirror, he has to, deliberately working his fingers to get his tie just right; but more, he wants to. The wool and cotton and silk feel wonderful against his skin, and by the time he gets the last of the buttons done up he's veritably tingling with tactile pleasure.

Just out of view, Bersicker waits to take him downstairs. But this no longer worries Jonathan. The wolf has become as familiar a presence as Dracula himself… or almost.

Jonathan finds himself missing the vampire, when he's gone.

Craving him as he might've once craved a cigarette—craved the sunshine—

But knowing Dracula has something special planned for the evening is enough to bolster Jonathan through, and soon enough he's keeping pace down one hallway and another, then two flights of stairs, until they reach a richly decorated gallery all lit up with beeswax candles, and beyond it: the ballroom.

It's a wide space, again lit with candles but brighter for the thousand gleaming surfaces, metallic ornaments and gilt frames, marble and glass, the floor elegantly patterned in black and white tiles. A massive portrait hangs on the far wall: Dracula. Decked out in medieval finery, he looks cruel and intelligent and proud, staring out through the whorls of paint with a gaze every bit as intense as the real one.

Then: "Well, don't you just look good enough to eat..."

Jonathan turns to find himself face-to-face with the Count. He too is dressed to the bloody nines—but like the picture, his suit looks plucked from another age, all stately lines and stark contrasts, with a huge gold and ruby pendant set beneath his collar. More strikingly still: he's had a haircut and shave.

"Hello, Johnny."

Jonathan swallows. Then he says, "Hello."

And when Dracula extends his hand, Jonathan takes it.

*

Jonathan has never been much of a dancer. But tonight he might as well be flying, effortlessly following Dracula's lead as they circle the floor, round and round again to music made no less lovely for the fact it seems to pipe up out of nowhere.

Now and then his attention is caught by one of the room's many mirrors; he admires how they endlessly reflect the scene—but not, he thinks one moment before forgetting the next, either he or Dracula.

And of course there are the others too—only a few at first, spectral, with faces masked or obscured; and then more. They shift into view like ghosts given flesh, and Jonathan suddenly perceives what Castle Dracula might have been like long ago, when the place teemed with life—

Where now there's death. It's a while before either of them speaks again.

Then Dracula leans in to murmur into Jonathan's ear: "It's time."

"Time?" Jonathan repeats.

"Yes, my dear: time for you to wake up."

*

Jonathan opens his eyes—

To the dark.

Chapter Text

Jonathan Harker wakes in the dark, naked, in the arms of Count Dracula.

He recoils, only to find himself stopped by a wall to his back—then the same to his top and bottom—and panic rises in him in a rush: he's got to get out of here.

Thankfully the barrier above him proves more forgiving, lifting with a single push, and in a moment he's half-tumbling, half-sliding out of what one stricken glance over his shoulder is revealed as a large, black coffin.

"Oh god," he croaks. "Oh my god—"

"Johnny," says Dracula as he lifts himself into a sitting position, one arm draping along the gilt-trimmed rim and the other stretching out, placating. "You need to stay calm."

Jonathan shakes his head, aghast. The vampire is downright filthy, his long hair tangled and his cheeks and beard coated with gore, not to mention the dirt.

Not that Jonathan's doing much better. He rubs at his mouth and the back of his hand comes back red.

Blood.

Strata of the stuff coating his face and neck, some of it dried on in clumps and some of it still wet, and he's going to be fucking sick.

"No. No, no, no..." he mutters, searching rapidly around before spotting a door at the top of a short set of stairs near the rear of the crypt, and then begins to scramble towards it.

"Jonathan. Listen to me—"

"No!" Jonathan screams, and this time it rings out clearer, firmer, as sharp as cut glass.

It's not a voice he recognizes.

But he doesn't linger on it. Somehow, he's already halfway there, in reach of a torch set into a wrought iron wall sconce. He hoists it up and promptly lops it over his shoulder, not looking back to watch it land – by the Count's enraged roar, it must have hit close enough – never stopping until he's got the doorknob in his hand, nearly taking the damned thing off its base while getting it open.

He doesn't register this uncanny strength, or the speed propelling his escape; not the keenness of his vision despite the gloom; and too: not the hum within him that tells him just where to go to get back to the castle's front entrance.

This door is heavier. It takes him a couple of tries to create an opening wide enough to slip through, but then he's bounding outside—

Into the bright moonlight.

The moon itself looming huge and yellow above a parapet, and Jonathan can't help but stop to stare, suddenly attentive. It's… captivating. And in the stillness, he finds he can pick out the peripheral chatter of animals and the distant river flowing; the woods shifting and all the earth settling—cacophonic—harmonious: the night. And at the heart of it all, he hears Dracula.

"What've you done to me?" Jonathan whispers when the monster is once more by his side. "What the hell am I?"

Dracula smiles and says, "I'd say you're just about perfect."

Chapter Text

Jonathan gapes at him. "You—you mean I'm a—"

"Vampire." Dracula lets the word settle a moment before adding: "Most of the ones before you became beasts, but you've kept your spirit—perhaps even a will of your own." Dracula's gaze flicks up and down Jonathan's body admiringly. "Don't you see? You're like me, Johnny—

"You shall be my finest bride."

"No," Jonathan says, retreating a step. There's nowhere to run, but he's entirely too keyed up to stand still, every sense cranked to 11, every cell electrified by the vastness of the night. So spread out, he knows he can either concentrate on nothing… or on him. He clenches his fists and looks up. "I didn't ask for this. D'you understand me? I don't want this. You have to turn me back."

"I can't."

"You mean you won't."

"I mean you died."

Jonathan's stomach lurches. He huffs, "You murdered me."

"No," says Dracula. "The river runs full at this time of year. You were dragged under by the rapids, your lungs filled with water, and you drowned. By the time I pulled you ashore, you'd been dead for some time… save for the spark of consciousness, tucked deep within your brain. Fading fast." He's reveling in the story, his voice lilting, gloating—proud. "Fortunately for you, my heart was in it."

"So everything that's happened since I woke up in your bed has been a lie?"

"Not necessarily. You dream beautifully, Johnny." Dracula's look turns decidedly lascivious. "I've never had a visitor in my mind palace as long as you. I was surprised to find it rather… intoxicating."

Jonathan sneers. "I despise you."

"That's not what you were saying last night." The vampire grins, revealing his sharp – but still human-looking – teeth. "You know, I hardly left your side the whole time it took you to transform. I couldn't risk losing you. So I held you, Jonathan, there in the dark, entertaining your mind while my blood did its work on your body."

Jonathan shakes his head, wanting to hear none of it—yet repeating the words in his head, Dracula's voice like a metronome, he realizes it to be true. He feels different, somehow. Stronger; more alert; and oddly self aware. And then something occurs to him. "I'm not breathing."

"No," Dracula agrees. "You don't need to now. But you do, I'm afraid, need to eat."

Jonathan chokes down a wave of disgust. "You mean I'll have to—to drink blood."

"That's right. But let me say, Johnny: don't knock it until you've tried it."

Dracula holds his hand out, and for a long moment Jonathan resists the urge to take it. But there's something in the other man's eye that tells him that at the moment, resistance is fucking useless.

"There's a good boy. Now come back inside with me and we'll get you cleaned up—I'll even let you shower first."

Some primal instinct claws its way to the surface of Jonathan's mind. "You have a shower?"

Chapter Text

The water is hot enough to scald—would certainly have done, before, leaving Jonathan yelping and flushed where now he's white and smooth in all the places the blood has washed off.

He selects the mildest smelling soap from among the Count's considerable collection of toiletries, working up a lather between his hands and stroking it through his hair. The sensation is almost overwhelming. He feels so much, the touch of every tingling, popping bubble quite as intense as the jets raining down.

Around his feet, the water pools red along the crevices of the pond-stone floor.

It takes him a long time to get clean.

In the meanwhile he makes note of the changes to his body, taking himself in gradually, passing no judgment until he's heard all the evidence—this calm in itself a shift from his typical panic-stricken turns—to say nothing of the physical strength that has him handling objects gently, lest he break them; his vision, despite having worn glasses all his life, now piercing even in the dark; how his nails have sharpened, elongated enough that they might in fact be termed claws; the vividly blue veins running beneath his skin; the way he can pick out sounds around him with precision, up to and including Dracula, busy elsewhere in the castle; the energy, like a coiled spring, planted in his core; the churning of his guts, symptom of some deeper hunger—

And he knows. He may be the same old Jonathan Harker in a thousand different ways—but by all accounts, Count Dracula has made something else of him as well.

*

When Jonathan meets Dracula back in the parlor to find they're wearing matching robes – a luxurious garment, the black silk wonderfully soft against Jonathan's skin – he demands, "I want my own clothes back."

Dracula smiles, unhurried. "I'll get you all the clothes you want." He'd bathed elsewhere, and has his still-damp hair tied back, and seated in one of the wing-chairs beside the fire he looks as imperious as ever.

Then Jonathan notices how Dracula's sleeve is ruched up, revealing a long, blistered scar on his forearm—the torch, he remembers, refusing to feel sorry for it but provoked just the same. "Why do you keep looking at me like that?"

"Like what, Johnny?"

Like I'm what's for fucking dinner? he thinks. But instead says: "Like that."

"Oh. But of course you haven't seen," says Dracula, and for an instant Jonathan's mind is filled with a vision of himself, but from Dracula's viewpoint. Jonathan freezes, mid-gasp, shocked by the intrusion first—and the realization that his hair has gone completely white after. Then the image is gone.

Jonathan blinks, rubbing at his temples. "Bloody hell, you can do that?"

"And so shall you, in time." Dracula gestures across the table – where two glasses and an unlabeled bottle of very dark liquid are set out – for Jonathan to take the opposite chair. "Please. Join me, my dear. Come and have your first taste."

Chapter Text

"In the old days, I'd have given you a human, tied up and ready for the taking," Dracula says, though Jonathan only half-hears him, too intent on the bottle in Dracula's hands. Dracula pulls the cork, tipping a flow of ruby-red fluid into the first glass—

And fuck, the scent of it, deep and rich and like nothing Jonathan knows, but knows bloody well he's got to taste—his whole body stood to attention, his nostrils flaring—he thinks he could just about throttle the other man to get to it; but he doesn't have to. Dracula smiles and again beckons for Jonathan to sit.

And by god, Jonathan does.

"It's pig's blood?" he wants to know even as he reaches for the glass.

"Yes. Regrettably."

Jonathan waits a moment more. Then he puts it to his mouth. The cut crystal feels warm against his lips, the blood too, spilled thick and sticky over his tongue as he drinks…drinks…drinks…

How to describe it beyond the obvious: awesome.

It's like every favorite meal rolled into one, every longed for cuppa or cocktail or cigarette, and it fills his mind with white-hot fire, every stitch of him lit up and drawn out in incandescent pleasure. A moan bubbles up from his throat before the glass is empty and he's gasping for more when it is.

Belatedly, Jonathan realizes that the sensation of incredible arousal—the tingling in his mouth he's been feeling all along—has been his teeth, extending into razor-sharp fangs—

As if he were a goddamned monster.

"Please—" It's a challenge for him to get the words out. "I need—"

But Dracula understands well enough, and is happy to oblige.

*

By the time Jonathan's on his fourth pour, he's a little better at pacing himself.

He doesn't know how it's possible, but his senses are even sharper than before – he'd spent the last several minutes watching a spider weave a web in the far corner of the room, its softest step audible to his sensitive ears – to hell with the fact that he can tell clearly that the Count smells of sandalwood and musk rather than of the grave.

But for his part, Dracula leaves Jonathan to his thoughts, content to watch his reactions in silence—save for the occasional inquiries into how he's feeling.

To which Jonathan counters, "What do you think? I'm dead."

Dracula's lips quirk. "Undead, actually."

Jonathan glares at him and sips from his glass and listens to the howl of wolves beyond the valley, far from here for the moment but growing nearer, and for one surprised moment wonders whether he might fathom some meaning from the clamor—

"You have questions. I want to answer them."

"All right," Jonathan says. "I'd like to know what the hell gives you the right to just fucking take someone."

"Because I can't face Van Helsing alone. I need you in London with me, Johnny," says Dracula, low and intent, "where you shall do my bidding."

Chapter Text

Jonathan's jaw drops. "London? You're taking me with you to London?"

The Count's words are better than music to his ears. To hell with the whys and wherefores. If they get back to London, Jonathan can find a way to free himself! It's his bloody city, not Dracula's. He knows it better than Dracula ever will. He can get help, contact the police—or better still: Mina.

Mina will know what to do.

God, but just the thought of seeing her again is enough to make Jonathan heave a sigh of relief.

"You're surprised."

"I suppose I never thought I'd make it back."

Dracula smiles at this. "Sooner than you think. We depart in a fortnight."

Jonathan remembers spotting Dracula's travel itinerary among the documents on his desk—and the plane tickets. "From Bucharest?"

"No. From Varna." Catching Jonathan's puzzled expression, Dracula continues, "We'll be going by ship. Fortunately, pretending to be cargo isn't half as tedious as it used to be. I'm sure we'll find a way to drum up some onboard entertainment." He smiles again, sharper this time. "In the meantime, my dear, I shall do my best to make a proper vampire of you."

*

Dracula's coffin sits open in the center of the crypt, the gleaming black exterior still streaked red where Jonathan crawled out of it. How many days and nights had he spent here in the other man's arms? The details of the dream they shared remain vivid in his mind—the erotic ecstasies, the memories of vampire's mouth on his lips and throat and cock, seem no less real than anything else he's felt since arriving at the castle.

There's no way to deny he's as drawn to Dracula as much as he loathes him.

There's no way to untangle the wanting part of wanting him dead.

The sooner he can get away from him, the better. He looks reflexively away, muttering, "I'm not getting back in there with you."

"I figured as much," says Dracula, "which is why I've prepared an alternative."

Jonathan follows him to a second coffin behind the first, this one done up in mahogany and polished brass, the fixings adorned in an elegant leaf pattern.

It doesn't look new.

But the lining does look soft, the whole of it somehow comforting, and he can't deny that a certain grogginess has begun to overtake him. Like a dimming of his senses, like when the last cup of coffee following an all-nighter finally wore off. Bone-weariness. Needing nothing if not rest.

"I feel… drawn to it," Jonathan says.

Dracula hums in agreement. "The sun will be up soon, and it will be another good couple of decades before you'll be capable of much activity during the daylight hours," he says. "This box is lined with Transylvanian earth. Now that you are kin to me, Jonathan Harker, it should ensure you a restful sleep."

Dracula offers Jonathan a hand. Jonathan looks at it, then at Dracula—and then gets in by himself.

Chapter Text

Jonathan wakes up hungry.

And Dracula is waiting, glass of blood in hand, when he lifts the lid of his coffin and emerges into the crypt. He has half a mind to refuse it—the sight of the other man in his black suit and shirt, tall and utterly fit and seeming to all the world not a day over fifty-five, roils him—to say nothing of that damned curl of his contemptible mouth.

Then he catches the scent. Rich and red, exciting his every nerve; he shudders, feeling his gums tingle as his fangs begin to descend, twin blades that veritably throb with anticipation.

He hasn't a snowball's chance in hell at refusing.

But damned if he's going to give Dracula the satisfaction of knowing just how much he enjoys it. He finishes it in a couple of swallows and stops himself well before he can start licking the glass clean. Just the same, the Count's stood positively too close for comfort, so that Jonathan understands with certain clarity what it feels like to be a bug under a magnifying glass. It takes everything in him not to squirm.

"D'you mind?"

Dracula's smile gets a little wider. "Sorry. It's just… you're—"

"A monster?" Now Jonathan does look up, mustering a glare. His senses are sharpened and his mouth tastes of metal and every cell within him is clamoring for more. "A perfect fiend?"

"I was going to say beautiful." Dracula's gaze drops from Jonathan's eyes to his mouth to the glass and back. "You don't know what it's been like. All the years I've waited." His nostrils flare. Then: "I've another glass set out in the drawing room, my dear, if you'll do me the honor of your company."

*

From the look of it, Dracula's in fact already been through most of a bottle himself. Beside it, Jonathan is surprised to see the copy of The Hobbit they'd nearly finished before—likely would have done, if Jonathan hadn't gone out the window—stirring in Jonathan a sort of déjà vu.

And to his astonishment, his own belongings are here too.

Slowly, carefully, as if the lot may up and vanish before his eyes, he reaches out to touch his favorite brown suit, draped on a chair. The wool feels coarse beneath his fingertips, scratchy in a way he doesn't remember, but the leather jacket is better, the fabric soft as butter. He lifts it from the pile, running his hands down the sides before dipping into the pockets.

Half a pack of cigarettes (he wonders what would happen if he smoked one now), a couple of sticks of gum (the mint smells oddly synthetic and sour), and his glasses (the left lens badly scratched, the right smudged with dirt). When he puts them on, the world looks bent, twisted, out of focus; how quickly he's got used to perfect vision.

He says, almost a confession: "I guess I won't be needing these anymore."

"No," Dracula chuckles. "I'm afraid not."

Chapter Text

The view down the castle wall is different this time.

For one thing, it's a clear night. And bright. So every nuance in the masonry seems obvious, all the cracks and crannies illuminated in the moonlight, where before the cold, driving rain had made a sheer surface of it—Jonathan's fingernails had cracked, raw and bloodied and throbbing where he held on for dear life—

Well. Vampiric powers or not, it's a long, long way to the ground.

He spends a couple of moments gaping downward before commenting, "Why not put in a lift?"

Dracula's mouth curls. "This is faster. Now, I don't fancy fishing you out of the river again," he says, red lips over sharp teeth, "so you'd best pay attention."

*

Jonathan takes the advice. What choice does he have? He'd be a fool to turn down any chance at learning more about this thing he's become, let alone gaining an advantage that could one day help him escape.

It's simply a matter of overcoming one of his all-time greatest fears.

And Dracula makes it look easy.

In a matter of seconds, he's vaulted over the balustrade and started head-first for the castle's craggy foundations, hands stretched in front and long legs poised behind. He moves quickly, with astonishing lightness, but in frequent stops and starts—like a lizard, Jonathan thinks with a grim laugh—

For better the absurd than any number of other observations he might make. For instance: how Dracula's sleeves, rolled to his elbows, reveal the lean musculature of his darkly-haired forearms; or the way his shoulders flex with every movement; or the fact that he's self-assured enough he could probably find his way blindfolded.

Jonathan however takes his time. He's grateful to be back in his own t-shirt and jeans, the fabric careworn and soft against his body. So too: the brand new pair of hiking boots he splurged on before his trip, which even at the time he'd suspected he might never use.

Ha bloody ha.

By now Dracula has reached the bottom, turned round, and flicked his wrist, beckoning Jonathan to follow. Then there's an accompanying mental tug at his senses, urging him on. He shivers at the unfamiliar touch—yet another item to unpack later.

But for the moment there's nowhere to go but down: Jonathan sucks in a breath he doesn't need and begins his descent. And then something in him shifts. His instincts take over. He feels oddly connected to the ancient structure, palming the palimpsest of lichen and moss and mold and stone.

It's exhilarating. It's the best Jonathan can remember feeling in his own skin—strong and purposeful and calm.

And it's smashed to bits when he sees the way Dracula's staring at him – triumphant and indulgent – feels an answering pang in his chest, and falls the remaining twenty yards to the ground, landing heavily near Dracula's feet.

Dracula clicks his tongue. Then: "All right, Johnny?"

Jonathan grunts and squints up at him. "Third time's the charm."

Chapter Text

The way back up is easier—

But maybe it's only because Jonathan knows there's a glass of blood waiting for him at the top.

*

By the time they scale the wall another three times, the sky is beginning to go pink about the edges and pale blue above, contrasting with the still-shadowy landscape.

It's beautiful. It also hurts Jonathan's eyes. He glances away, catching Dracula's gaze instead, understanding well enough it's time for them to go back inside. But he needs to know, "What would happen if I stayed to watch the sunrise?"

Dracula's mouth straightens slightly. "You'd burn."

"So that's it, then? I'll never get to go out during the day, and I just have to take it like it's no big deal?"

"I wouldn't say never. In time—"

"When? When will I be able to stand in the sun again? A decade? Two?"

"Oh, no." The Count actually has the gall to sound surprised. "More like a century. Perhaps longer."

"A century?" Jonathan chokes out a laugh. "Are you out of your fucking mind? I can't live like this—you can't expect me to live like this—" he cuts off, unable to say the word aloud.

Forever. The immensity of it for once hits at him at full tilt. He grabs the balustrade, steadying himself, shaking his head but unable to clear it. Then Dracula's voice cuts through the static.

"It gets better," he says, commanding. "With practice, when you have more control over your powers, you'll be capable of things you can't even imagine. Ecstasies beyond your wildest dreams, Johnny, will be yours for the taking. Believe me: it will get better."

Jonathan swallows. "D'you know what I think of when I think of ecstasy?" he asks, but doesn't wait for an answer. "Easter hols, 1981. Lucy always packed the best picnics, even then—and the three of us, she and—" it takes him a moment to shape his mouth around her name, "Mina, were sat on a blanket in Hampstead Heath, listening to the wireless I'd brought along... and munching on curried chicken sandwiches... and gossiping about the latest guy Lucy had turned down...

"And then we all lay back and let the sun warm us through. It was a lovely day." His smile turns grim. "I don't think I'd ever felt so content."

Jonathan opens his eyes, and in a moment the memory is drowned out by the now.

"Come." Dracula extends his hand and Jonathan takes it, and together they return to the crypt.

*

It's... cold But this doesn't bother Jonathan overmuch, nor does the near-darkness prove difficult to navigate—

After all, it's a straight line. A hallway of incomprehensible length, lit by infrequent torches, locked door after locked door—

Ah. Here we are: the one that opens.

And Jonathan knows this mammoth plane of carved mahogany. The knob is smooth, cool to the touch, and tuns without complaint. He hears a click. And pushing gently, he swings it open—

And then steps inside.

Chapter Text

The next night, Dracula teaches Jonathan how to transform into a red mist.

Jonathan has Dracula repeat that, just to make sure he heard right.

"A red mist."

It still sounds preposterous—the Count must be having him on. "And what is the purpose of turning into a red mist?"

"Oh, it's useful for manipulating matter… traveling over terrains… animating a body… getting though very small holes," Dracula recites indulgently. "I once spent three months at sea as a mist. Quite frightened the crew—I trust you'll do better."

With that, he dissolves into thin air. From feet to head, clothes and all, he fades into a pale scarlet cloud, until there's nothing of him left but his sharp-toothed grin—and then that too is gone. For several moments, the mass shifts and reforms, spreading out, stretched thin and searching, for a time melting away entirely before reshaping once more.

And Jonathan hears in his head: Hello, Johnny.

Jonathan shivers, gaping at the scene – this thing Dracula's become – curiously uncomprehending and fascinated beyond all measure – until Dracula is again standing by his side.

Perhaps he should have thought twice before reaching out with a tentative touch to Dracula's silk-clad pectoral. But he has to know and—yep. He's real. Jonathan says, wonderingly, "Incredible."

Dracula's smile returns. "Shall we begin?"

Jonathan swallows. "How?"

"Take my hand."

"I'm not going to get stuck like this?"

Dracula appears to hesitate. Then: "I'd say you have a better chance of never wanting to turn back."

Jonathan recoils slightly. What the hell does that mean? Or better yet: "What's in it for you?"

"Simply put, my dear: having a well educated bride is in my best interest."

Ignoring the affectation, Jonathan lets his gaze drop to Dracula's outstretched hand.

For once in his life, he doesn't feel nervous in any way that matters. So he takes it.

At first there's only the Count's cool, dry grip against his own.

Then there's a tingling in his fingertips that spreads up his arms, through his shoulders and chest, his stomach and legs, his head most acutely, until every part of him seems to shimmer.

And he's here and not; everywhere and nowhere; seeing and blind. Aware of the room they're in and all the things in it; and Dracula too.

The Count is everywhere. His presence flickers, welling up like a fountain before it overflows.

GOOD, ISN'T IT?

YES…

It's unbelievable—Jonathan doesn't know where he ends and Dracula begins, his whole self gone erogenous—and then it's too much. He begins to vibrate, suddenly panicked he'll slip totally apart—

PLEASE! I CAN'T!

There's nothing to struggle against; he hasn't a form to steady!

But evidently Dracula gets the memo, and in another moment has managed to return them both to their corporeal forms. Jonathan huffs out a breath. He feels like he's going to be sick.

Before waiting for Dracula to speak, he makes for the only safe place he can think of: his old suite.

Chapter Text

The way there comes to Jonathan naturally—and Dracula gives him a head start. He almost manages to get the knob turned before the vampire blocks him.

"Let me through, goddamn you," Jonathan hisses, surprised to find that the expletive has burned his tongue, but at the moment caring little. "These are my rooms."

Dracula's expression narrows. "And this is my castle."

"Let. Me. In."

"If you're expecting to find things as you left them…"

Jonathan shakes his head, trying to suss out his meaning. Could it be that Dracula had gone in and cleared away all the evidence of Jonathan having been there? He'd asked before, and asks again: "Have the authorities been round, looking for me?"

"No one is looking for you, Johnny."

A lie; it has to be a lie. But the gleam in Dracula's eyes is irksome enough that Jonathan would do just about anything to avoid it, up to and including shoving in between Dracula and the doorframe. This, he reflects, is an instance when becoming a mist might come in handy—though with his new strength, a firm shoulder is enough to splinter the wood, yanking the thing from its hinges.

In a rush, Jonathan spills into the room beyond—

And gasps.

His suite is in shambles. Furniture smashed to kindling, curtains shredded off their rods, tapestries and artwork scattered to the floor, panes broken from the windows. And the bed, where Jonathan had toiled away so many days, sleepless and scared, now broken, battered, and tossed halfway across the space.

"What…" Jonathan trails off, needing to rally his thoughts. Then something occurs to him: "The revenants—did they—"

"No. I did."

The Count's low, bitter tone is enough to turn Jonathan's head. He's still standing in the doorway, hands fisted at his sides, his expression gone grim. Hell, if Jonathan didn't know better, he'd call it remorseful.

"You?" he asks. "But why?"

"I was furious to find you gone," Dracula says, "when I'd given you everything. My body. My blood. My love—"

Jonathan breaks in, astonished despite himself, "Love? You call this love?"

Dracula doesn't hesitate. "Yes. I too can love."

For a long pause, Jonathan can't speak. His gaze settles on what he recognizes as the silver meal service, twisted and thrown into the fireplace.

Dozens of fat flies buzz about the rancid feast.

"You left me," Jonathan says softly, "alone. You fucked me… and you fed on me… and you left me to figure out how to even begin to deal with such a bloody thing, on my own. Coming to Transylvania was the worst mistake I've ever made—that night the very worst I'd ever had." Tears have begin to prickle at his eyes, tinged red. "And you wonder why the only thing I could think to do was escape."

Shakily, he gets to his feet, and doesn't meet Dracula's eye as he faces him in the entryway. "I'm going to my coffin."

A moment passes. Then Dracula steps back.

Chapter Text

"There are other matters which demand my attention this evening, so I'm afraid you'll have to finish your little sulk alone." Dracula's voice is muffled through the lid of Jonathan's coffin, the layers of wood and silk, though his irritation comes through in stereo, piercing straight into Jonathan's mind.

His lordship had evidently intended to teach Jonathan how to become a bat tonight.

Well—fuck that. Jonathan would like just about anything more. He'd been pointedly non-participatory in the Count's chatter for the past five minutes, and neither the prickle of interest at what other matters might entail, nor the unspoken urgency of their looming departure date, drive him to reply. He's really quite proud of himself—

For all of sixty seconds.

Because before Dracula goes, he uncorks a bottle and leaves it right where Jonathan can smell it.

*

All the Things Jonathan Can No Longer Have Now He’s Undead (Continued)

26. A pint.

27. Pizza.

28. Sunday roast.

29. Cornflakes.

30. Perfect eggs over-easy served beside all the usuals, beans and mushrooms and bacon and tomato and buttered brown bread, and a mug of Darjeeling cooled only a little by the splash of milk. (Related: the feeling of warmth as the tea goes down.)

31. Biscuits, every variety. Expensive ones from the bakery down the street. Oversweet ones from the tin at Christmas. Stale ones from the office cabinet; likewise his landlady's flat; not to mention the ones of his childhood, Garibaldis and pink wafers or whatever else Gran used to put out for tea. Saucer sized, plastic wrapped ones from the newsagent's. The ones Mina used to make.

32. A post-pub curry.

33. Proper chips, straight from the fryer.

34. A birthday cake lit with far too many candles, the wax already melting into the vanilla crème frosting in technicolor dribbles, his friends' faces lit gold, singing.

35. Single malt whisky, poured by Peter Hawkins from his own private reserves, upon the successful closure of the Dracula account.

*

"You can't stay in there forever," Dracula says, knowingly, a long while later.

Pre-dawn exhaustion has begun to dull the edges of Jonathan's hunger—but not his tongue. "Or what?" he wants to know, though the question comes out as more of a croak. There's nothing for it: his throat is as dry as ash. Speaking again takes a moment.

In the meantime, he feels Dracula's attention on him, focusing as if anticipating a fight.

Good.

"Or what?" Jonathan repeats eventually. "You'll smash my box apart? Go ahead."

"You think I would do you harm?"

"I don't think it. I'm living it."

"And if you don't feed, you'll die," Dracula says, closer now: Jonathan senses the vampire's presence like a shifting cloud. "Pout. Commiserate the loss of your mortal problems. Dream of your cat. But don't waste the gift I've given you, Johnny."

It takes all his dwindling strength, but Jonathan manages to grit out: "Don't call me that."

Thankfully, sleep takes him before he can suffer through Dracula's comeback.

Chapter Text

Jonathan dreams he's walking down a hallway lined with locked doors—and at the end of it…

The one that opens.

He steps into a room. And not just any: it's his grandfather's study, as it was, long ago. Even in Jonathan's childhood the place had seemed untouched by time, with Gran practically sealing it away when she learned her husband was among the thousands killed at Dunkirk. It remained off-limits to Jonathan—and so was among his favorite places to be.

At night, after his grandmother had gone to bed, he'd sometimes pry the lock and spend a while quietly inspecting his grandfather's things by torchlight, the man he'd never known both near and unfathomable to him, before tucking himself into the old leather chair to read. On rarer occasions, he'd get an afternoon here to himself, and sprawl across the fraying Turkish carpet with an armful of toys, the whole space awash in golden light.

Much like it is right now. And he's here too.

"Hello," says Jonathan, softly.

The kid on the floor still looks startled, staring up at Jonathan with wide eyes—then he relaxes. "Oh. It's you."

Jonathan pauses, surprised. Then he ventures, "D'you mind if I join you?"

A shrug – had his hair really been that orange? – which Jonathan takes as good an invitation as he's likely to get. He'd been shy at this age – seven? eight? – and reticent around grownups. He leans down, settling to his knees, but still gives the kid plenty of space.

"Is this an Action Man?" Jonathan asks, picking up the nearest figure, a well-worn soldier in a helmet and green fatigues.

"Yeah, that's Tommy, and this here's Briggs. He's my adventurer."

Jonathan remembers them both. "And what sort of adventure is he having today?"

The kid smiles; he's missing one of his front teeth, and Jonathan spots the pink tip of his tongue through the gap; from behind thick glasses, his eyes light up. "Oh! Him and his team of dino rangers are about to kill the bad guys!"

Jonathan smiles too, handing the figure back. Then: "It sounds like you have your hands full. But can you tell me… have I been here before?"

"Bunch of times." The kid scrutinizes him briefly. "Didn't you used to look different?"

"Yes," Jonathan admits, feeling in the far off island of his body (still alone in his coffin) the roil of pure, raging hunger. "I suppose I've changed a bit."

"Oh." With clever hands, the kid adjusts Briggs' jacket before standing the adventurer on an overturned bin where a couple of plastic dinosaurs are already positioned. He asks, "Did the man with the beard have anything to do with it?"

Jonathan sucks in a breath. "He's been here too?"

The kid nods. "He was trying to get into the doors, but I didn't let him." He turns back to Jonathan. "He's a good storyteller, told me all about this battle he'd fought in—I can see why you like him."

Chapter Text

"I don't like him," Jonathan snaps. A highlights reel of the ways Count Dracula has ruined his life flashes through his brain, but best put it mildly: "He—he's a bad guy. Understand? You did well not letting him in. D'you think you could tell me if he tries something again?"

The kid looks at him scrupulously. "Does that mean no more stories?"

Jonathan gives a level look back. "His stories aren't suitable for a seven year old anyway."

"Hey, I'm eight and a quarter! And I've seen scarier stuff on Doctor Who."

Jonathan has to smile at that, for of course he'd spent his fair share of time hiding behind the sofa whenever the Doctor encountered anything more menacing than a potted fern. "Even so, I'd rather not have him hanging about…" Where, exactly? He pauses, considering it. His grandfather's study reconstructed in perfect facsimile, the doors down the hall—all of it a dream, and yet so very real.

And then he wonders: might a single room sit at the heart of a palace?

*

The next door Jonathan opens leads into the night of his very own flat.

The kid shows him how it's done before retreating back into the study. "Just shut your eyes—" he'd paused to demonstrate, his glasses slightly magnifying the scrunch, "—and picture where you want to go. Easy, yeah?"

And so Jonathan sets his hand on the knob and thinks: Home, home, home.

Nowhere else but the small, slightly tatty, undoubtedly overpriced but rather well located apartment that Jonathan always felt lucky to have but was ever worried wasn't quite enough, filled with all his favorite things, just as he remembers it.

He only managed a couple of hours of sleep the night before he flew to Romania, nervous about nothing and everything, finally giving up on it for the sake of a long, hot shower and a longer time spent dressing, double checking his luggage, and triple checking his files.

Presently he spots his bags packed and ready in the narrow entryway, and his wallet, keys, passport, and plane tickets lined up on the nearby kitchen counter, and close at hand: a mug of tea, still hot.

If only he could stop himself this time—just go back to bed. Miss his flight. Never leave.

On an impulse, he pads to the bedroom to find this too as he'd left it, sheets in a tangle and pajamas tossed to the floor. But then again, this being a dream, he's wearing them; and then again the sheets are quite neat.

Jonathan heaves a sigh, relieved in a way he hasn't felt in… how long? Tension seeps from his body like a vapor. It's good. And then, remarkably, to his side: a purr.

"Tommy," Jonathan halfway sobs, pulling the cat to his chest and kissing him on the head. "Oh, my darling boy…"

*

Back in the coffin, the beast in him senses the oncoming dawn—he growls and gnashes, growing evermore hungry for blood.

Chapter Text

When Jonathan later remembers this night, recounting each beat in varying degrees of explicitness, the smell, the flavor, he tells himself he did it on purpose. That the desire to tear through his coffin and lunge at his maker was driven by raw hatred for the man, and not the mad lust for blood—that he'd had intention, presence of mind… rather than simply hunger.

But in the moment he's fucking ravenous.

The scent of blood wafting from outside is more than enough to shock him awake to find his limbs already poised and ready, tense with all the potential of a coiled spring, and then springing—

Pouncing, felling him and Dracula both – not to mention the bottle and glass in Dracula's hands – in a pile to the hard floor. Dracula lets out a growl, pushing back, but not before Jonathan gets his teeth in.

There's a small but deep cut on the Count's neck, bleeding freely amid a piece of broken glass lodged in, which Jonathan would like nothing more than to set his mouth to. So he does, nipping a little to widen the wound, moaning at the first exquisite taste of it, nothing like the blood he's lately got used to.

Heady; rich; ripe with death. The blood of Dracula.

He needs more.

Apparently Dracula has other ideas. "No, Jonathan," Dracula booms, wrenching a clawed grip into Jonathan's shirtfront and tossing him sideways. Jonathan just jolts at him again, hissing like a cornered animal, but then Dracula stops him with a look. "Get back, I say."

All of this has happened in only a couple of seconds, and in only a couple more, Dracula is straddling Jonathan's waist, effectively pinning him, preventing further struggle. His lips are parted, exposing his fangs—but he's laughing. "Oh, Johnny. Haven't you heard it's not nice to bite the hand that feeds you?"

Jonathan would like to do a lot more than bite said hand; but held in Dracula's red gaze, he hasn't the strength to try anything at all.

*

Is he sorry for it? Maybe a little.

He hadn't meant to lose control. Depriving his body of its one substantial demand only serves to land him back in Dracula's arms as the vampire first braces him, then cradles him, through three and a half bottles of the red stuff.

By now Jonathan feels engorged, almost drunk. And pointedly: pliable. Dracula guides him upstairs to the master bath, where the water heats to steaming while they strip out of their soiled clothes.

Sidelong, he watches Dracula pick the shard of glass from the gash on his throat—already healing. "I suppose you're used to doing things without a mirror."

"Mirrors? Mere baubles of man's vanity," Dracula says with a hint of menace. It takes Jonathan a moment to realize he's joking. He still feels the shimmer of the monster's blood flowing through him, and then Dracula's look turns menacing too. "Better, I think, to trust the word of one's dear friend."

Chapter Text

"Would you like to see yourself," says Dracula, low and menacing, "as I do?"

The Count's blatantly appraising look is enough to make Jonathan shiver. Fuck, but it must be bad. "Yes," he says, his voice still a little rough. "Show me."

Dracula tilts his head and then, like some vision from hell, Jonathan sees. He'd already known his hair had turned white; but it's also longer than it was, curling slightly about his ears and stood at wild angles everywhere else. The rest of his body hair is pale too, and in the incandescent light his skin looks almost translucent.

His eyes are very bright.

And then there's the blood.

He's wet from nose to chin and then some – the upper half of his body is streaked in the stuff; his hands too – giving him a maniacal appearance. Monstrous… but with a glow of near-obsessive admiration about him that must be seeping from nowhere but Dracula himself.

Not the Jonathan Harker he remembers.

No one he knows at all.

*

"I thought we'd take the night off," Dracula says later, after they've both showered. Jonathan has been patently avoiding gaping at the other man as he dries off and gets dressed—but the sight of a six hundred year old vampire tricking out in an all-black Adidas tracksuit, t-shirt, and trainers is too alarming a sight to ignore.

Said vampire smiles. "You've been under such a lot of stress of late, Johnny. You deserve a bit of R & R."

And whose bloody fault is that but Dracula's? Jonathan narrows his eyes, refusing the bait. "Sure. How about you let me use your computer? Getting caught up on my e-mail would make me feel quite relaxed."

"Nice try," says Dracula, tossing his towel into the hamper… and Jonathan wants to know who the hell does the laundry in this place. Then he steps forward so that Jonathan must look up to meet his eye. "How d'you feel about Francis Ford Coppola?"

Jonathan blinks. Then: "Always was more of a Spielberg man myself."

*

They settle on Kubrick.

Side by side in armchairs in Dracula's personal cinema, they watch Barry Lyndon, quiet save for the times Dracula interjects to note some historical inaccuracy. There's a bottle of blood on the table between them of which Jonathan has already drained two glasses, and damned if he doesn't feel better, his senses and reflexes nearly back to their former preternatural acuteness. After the drought, it feels like a flood.

But still he sits there in a sort of haze, aware that the Count is observing his every move, feeling the flicker of the man's consciousness at the edge of his own—not intruding, but ever-present: assessing him.

Jonathan wonders whether he might've actually dealt Dracula some real damage—or if such a thing as killing him outright is even possible.

And he wonders: if Dracula's blood had been an aphrodisiac to him as a human, what does it mean to him now he's a vampire?

Chapter Text

"You do know what a bat is," Dracula inquires the next night. "Perhaps you've seen one on the telly?"

Jonathan glares at him. "Of course I know what a bloody bat is. Sort of a flying rodent—"

"Bats aren't rodents, my dear. They belong to their own order." They're stood together in the castle courtyard; the air is warmer than the last time Jonathan was outside, the moonlight diminished, and his senses right back in overdrive.

Easier to concentrate on a single point: with his preternatural vision, he can make out Dracula's amused look as clear as day. He continues, "To be a bat is to know the darkness—to navigate it as a native inhabitant, as fully as you do now, with all your powers at your disposal."

Dracula takes a step forward; against his better judgment, Jonathan doesn't take a step back.

Instead he asks, "How?"

"All you have to do is want it. Your body's hardwired to do the rest."

Jonathan holds Dracula's gaze for a moment. Then he closes his eyes, draws in a breath, and – feeling utterly preposterous – begins the mental litany: Make me a bat, make me a bat, make me a bat!

Nothing. He breathes out and screws his eyes tighter.

A bat! I want to be a bat! The thought beats through his mind like a drum, yet still nothing.

And then Dracula leans in to murmur in his ear: "Come on, Johnny, haven't you ever dreamt of flying?"

"Yes…"

"Focus on that thought. Imagine feeling the wind on your face… over your wings… rising higher, with the woods spreading out below… relax now, that's it…"

By hell, in some strange way, Jonathan actually can feel the wind on his wings. And then with a pop, a whiff of ozone, and the sensation of every cell in his body contracting at once – a feeling so sharp and fleeting that he hardly registers it as pain – Jonathan finds himself flapping in the air several inches from Dracula's sharp toothed grin.

"Aren't you a handsome fellow," he says, well pleased. "Decent wingspan… and all white. Johnny, I must say it suits you."

Whatever complaint Jonathan has at being admired so blithely comes out as a squeak—but squeak he fucking does, losing his tempo in the meantime, fluttering wildly until Dracula captures him in a firm but gentle grip.

"Don't panic," he commands. "We'll be able to talk again once I've changed."

Then he sets Jonathan on the wall. This too feels unfamiliar, his clawed wingtips and toes catching against the uneven stone, and he almost slips, only catching the Count's transformation once it's finished. The result, however, grabs his attention: wide and heavy and black, with red eyes that gleam as bright as flames, the Count makes a fearsome creature of the night.

And then his voice resonates through Jonathan's skull: Come, and Jonathan cannot help but obey.

*

They fly.

Over the mountains, through forest grove and clearing, they fly together until morning.

Chapter Text

The next night, they become wolves.

The transformation is harder than the ones that turned Jonathan into a mist and bat, demanding more of him than just desire. Too: it's more… visceral. The refractory bending and reshaping of his bones creates a sensation bordering on agony – and in some horrible way, utmost pleasure – so that he's stretched to his limits and then pulled beyond them, his consciousness amplified, rarefied, ripped apart—

Growing a jawful of teeth being among the most exhausting activities he's ever engaged in, next to football. But Dracula talks him through.

Before long, it's done. And Jonathan doesn't feel even a little bit like himself. He's all teeth, all limbs, all tail, bounding about on all fours, the pads of his great paws electrified to touch the ground that still feels warmed from the sun. Ecstatic. Everything bewitching to him at once.

Hell, but he never thought the darkness could look so alive. He sees so much. And the smells! The woods are furious with odor, myriad layers of stink, growth and rot, death and life. The wind manifests in vibrant hues. With a tilt of his head, a flick of his ears, he finds he can even make out the far away river, rushing with summer rains—

And here: Dracula.

He, the magnificent black wolf to Jonathan's side. Jonathan's canine brain can't fathom not falling in behind him, while Bersicker takes up the rear. Together they run through the castle gates, through the forest, leaping and bowing, confident beyond all measure, masters of their domain.

On the hunt.

Thump-bump.

Amid the noise, on the flickering edges of Jonathan's senses, he notices a sound.

Thump-bump, thump-bump.

A drumbeat speeding up—a heartbeat sounding true—a red deer stag far outnumbered.

Thump-bump, thump-bump, thump-bump, thump-bump.

By now flanked by the amassing pack of wolves, Jonathan among them.

The beast swings its great antlered head, snorting and stamping, reeking with fear and fighting for its life even as it's herded into the clearing. Just as Dracula promised, minions from the farthest reaches of his domain have gathered tonight to hold court, pay tribute… and feast. The wolves part ranks to let the stag pass, then circle round again, slathering in anticipation, though none but their master will claim first blood.

Presently Dracula howls, low and mournful and long, commanding even Jonathan's total attention.

Then he takes the stag down in a single, brutal attack. His jaws clench around the animal's sinewy throat, twisting, before snapping its neck; he laps at the wound a while before inviting Jonathan to join him: a yank on their mental connection that raises Jonathan's hackles.

Can he really do it?

He does. Instinct takes over as the stag's hot, living blood spills down his maw, into his hungry mouth, in the most primal experience of his life. By god, he'll never get enough.

It's here, in the midst of the kill, that Dracula's voice growls for no one but him: That's my Johnny.

Chapter Text

"Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh my god—" Jonathan chokes on the last word, his mouth sizzling in a way he's still not got used to, summoning a new wave of nausea. With effort, he heaves, "I'm going to be fucking sick."

"I'll have you know, that deer can be traced back to the ancient stock. There are less than a hundred of them still left in the wild," says Dracula, more humored than perturbed.

"And that's supposed make me feel better how, exactly?" Jonathan shoots back.

They'd shed their wolfskins by the riverside. This too was painful, but once Jonathan's wits had begun to return to him – reason at last overpowering the beast – he couldn't finish the job fast enough, leaving him to reemerge as himself, naked and covered in gore—on the brink, he's sure, of losing his mind—on the rocky shore.

"Breathe in," he orders himself, concentrating on the deliberateness of the act; and what else can it be now he no longer needs air? But too, there's a sweetness to the pre-dawn breeze, a damp flavor in his nostrils that along with the pressure of it in his lungs begins to reground him. Softer: "Breathe out."

Of course he isn't dying. He's already dead.

And no amount of scrubbing has yet cleaned the stains from his hands. Between his fingers, and in the lines of his palms, and deep under his nails. Hell, one might think he'd murdered somebody—

"You did very well tonight," Dracula breaks in, voice deep. While Jonathan was reeling, the other vampire had wandered out into the deeper waters to wash himself properly. He dunks forward, then bobs back up, slicking his hair back from his brow with his hands, revealing the point of his widow's peak. The rest of his hair curls damply about his ears. Amid the streaks on his face, the whites of his eyes and the planes of his teeth stand out brightly. "My first night as a wolf, I was half-skewered on the tusk of the boar I was eating." He grins. "I got better."

"No." Jonathan shakes his head, muttering, "It wasn't me. I'm not like that. I—I'm someone who does things like sign petitions to ban foxhunting, not someone who would ever—"

What? Rip apart Bambi's bloody dad?

Nor someone who would enjoy it.

Unbidden, he remembers the sensation of his canine teeth lodging in the stag's throat, and then tearing—the splash of heat across his tongue—the children of the night howling; and he too—how good it was to run by Dracula's side—and the horror, presently returning.

It takes another while for him to settle again. There's a fire in his veins there hadn't been two hours ago, and his mind feels sharper than it has in days. He says, with certainty, "I'm not like that."

"Like what, Johnny?"

"Like you." Jonathan finally looks up. "A killer."

Dracula nods. "Maybe," he says. "Or maybe you're still getting to know yourself."

Chapter Text

"Now come and rinse yourself off. No sense tracking viscera into the castle."

Dracula smiles as he says this, and of course Jonathan has noticed plenty of blood – his undead senses attuning to even trace amounts – about the place. An old splatter on a Turkish rug; stratic stains on a velvet settee where there'd once sat a pool of it; pale brown flecks on the sheets.

Jonathan wonders how long it'd been since the Count had domestic help. His mind flicks on the image of the ancient vampire going about the housework—vacuuming and dusting and doing the laundry. Preparing Jonathan’s meals. Refilling his glass.

Stripping him bare.

And of course he's still staring. With effort, Jonathan drags himself to his feet and trudges into the river, not stopping until he's submerged to his middle. The water is cold, but not unpleasant, the sharp sensation fully commanding his attention. He splashes a handful on his face, then another, before giving up and letting himself drop down into the water. After a few moments of rubbing his palms over his arms and chest, he's relieved to feel the slick layer of offal coating his skin begin to slip free.

To his surprise, his mental connection to Dracula also seems diluted. It's hard to call it privacy, but he still enjoys the break, making a point to take his time.

All the air dribbles out of him. And he sinks down, down, down to the silty, stony bottom.

He drowned not far from here.

He remembers that day: how he tried to escape—being carried away in the icy rushes—the way the water tasted as he gagged on it—the metallic sting in his nostrils as he was pulled under.

He remembers the terror he'd felt; the knowing that this is it.

But nothing seems threatening from here, where the world flickers, brightly refracted like a brilliant, shifting kaleidoscope. In fact he doesn't think he's ever seen anything quite so beautiful.

He knows he's crying, though he can't feel the tears against his cheeks.

*

"So. What delights will you have in store for us tonight?" Jonathan asks, aiming for sarcasm despite his genuine interest in the matter. He'd taken a proper shower when they got back to the castle, bone tired but diligent, never more grateful he'd packed his most comfortable pyjamas.

By now back in the crypt, his coffin is positively beckoning him. "What reviled creature will we become next? Rats? Mosquitoes? Tubs of Marmite?"

Dracula tilts his head. He'd also changed into pyjamas—though his decidedly leave less to the imagination. Jonathan focuses on how in this light, his eyes appear a rather ordinary shade of brown… and not how his open collar reveals his throat. "I thought I'd teach you how to travel by moonlight."

"That sounds…" Jonathan finds himself momentarily without words. Then: "Weird."

"It's actually a pleasure unknown to all but a few," Dracula says, "though I suppose you'll just have to experience it for yourself."

Chapter Text

Jonathan Harker isn't himself.

He can't be.

Because the Jonathan Harker he remembers being wouldn't be half stood on tiptoe, the whole length of his body arching up, with his hands fisted in Count Dracula's shirtfront, as he is now.

Nor would that Jonathan Harker shove his tongue into Dracula's mouth, thirsty as the kid at the club taking Ecstasy for the first time, nearly overwhelmed with sensation yet needing more… and when has he ever done that? Never. He's the responsible one. Hell, he's a fucking lawyer—

And he wouldn't before have welcomed this rush of feeling. This flush of arousal. He wouldn't have whimpered when Dracula's sharp teeth grazed him, or moaned when they cut.

The sound of his own voice, combined with the taste of blood, snaps him back to attention, and he stumbles backward several paces, out of Dracula's arms. Dracula doesn't try to stop him. But there's a searching, almost wistful look on his face for a moment before he schools himself back into wry amusement. "Good, isn't it?"

Jonathan swallows. He's still wobbling a little. That he'd just been kissing the other man – not to mention the veritable Rock of Gibraltar currently tenting his trousers – seems no less shocking than the fact that only moments before that, he'd been inhabiting a plane of moonlight.

Perhaps he's well and truly begun to slip away. But thinking on it too hard seems impossible, and to war with himself unwise. Then he realizes something. "It's like I'm drunk."

"A side effect of this particular transformation… among other things. The feeling will soon pass." For a moment, the red tip of Dracula's tongue is visible between his lips, and he pauses thoughtfully. Then: "You've done well, Jonathan. Why don't we call it an early night."

"Oh," says Jonathan. He feels bleary about his edges, hesitant to move. "I think I'm hungry."

Dracula laughs, "Of course, my dear. I daresay we could both do with a bite."

*

That morning, as he now does each morning, Jonathan returns to the hallway, the doors, and the room at its heart: his mind palace. It's still only the size of a cottage, if he's honest, but as the kitty on the poster says: Dream big!

And he asks the kid who lives here, "Has the Count been round?"

The thick spectacled, fiery haired spitting image of himself (circa 1972) shakes his head, all pout. "Nope. Heard him reading before, but he stopped just at the really good bit."

"That's right." They'd started The Hobbit again, to which – like that damned kiss – Jonathan refuses to prescribe special meaning. "I had to go to bed."

"You," the kid's look turns skeptical, "have a bedtime?"

Jonathan can't help but smile. "I'll have you know, a regular sleep schedule is a foundation of good health."

"You sound like my Gran."

"Maybe I do," says Jonathan, thinking that perhaps if he'd followed his grandmother's advice on any number of things, he wouldn't be in this bloody mess.

Chapter Text

The following night, Jonathan finds himself faced with his most thrilling challenge yet: paperwork.

Waybills and bills of lading, transport receipts and invoices. Ocean freight shipping instructions for fifteen containers, sent via commercial transport vessel, from Bulgaria to England. All of it unequivocal proof that the world outside Castle Dracula is still there, and Jonathan's palms are positively itching to have at it.

"I want you to give our arrangements a once-over. Make sure I haven't missed anything," Dracula says, gesturing to the spread of documents before rounding his desk and taking a seat. "As you know, the last time I attempted this voyage, I made several critical errors which forced my retreat. It won't happen again."

Jonathan nods slowly before sitting down opposite him. There's a folio set open to an amended packing list… though the details are scant and oddly repetitive. "Contents, organic matter. What does that mean?" he asks, his mind flashing through several worst case scenarios.

"Earth," Dracula tells him, "collected not far from here. I tell you, you should have seen the queue of lorries holding up traffic on the Pass." He smiles, adding, "And only fourteen containers of it. That last one's for us."

Perhaps foolishly, Jonathan had hoped Dracula might change his mind on this—and it must show, because the other vampire admonishes him lightly, "Johnny, Johnny. Let's be honest with ourselves, shall we? As much as I care for you, I simply cannot trust you to behave yourself on a continental flight."

Jonathan fails to stop himself from flinching as Dracula says this. He somehow feels doubly implicated, as if being an object of the monster's desire is any less damning than being a monster himself.

"Just think," Dracula says, leaning in, "of it as a chance to catch up on your reading list."

*

Jonathan examines every page, equally mindful of things that might throw a wrench in the Count's plans as he is expectant to find criminal activity. But everything's in order. Dracula had even prepaid the porters' gratuities.

The bigger surprise?

It's August.

It's already August and Jonathan's bowled over by the discovery, rendered speechless, hit in the pit of his guts with a sudden dose of reality.

He missed his birthday. He's been thirty four for weeks already—and dead longer than that. He wonders if anyone is still searching for him; and too, as he often does, what Mina will say when he tells her everything.

*

Dracula's office looks different than the last time Jonathan was here. Granted, his vampire eyes make everything sharper, clearer. New. But it's no longer stage-managed for human consumption.

The fluid in the decanter is nothing if not blood.

"Why are you really going to England?" Jonathan asks, much later. "You've spent a century licking your wounds. Why face Van Helsing now?"

Dracula's mouth quirks around his glass. There's red on his lips when he pulls it back, saying, "Because, my dear boy, I'm going to stop her from saving the world."

Chapter Text

Dracula continues, "Helsing Biotech is about to make an announcement that will change the course of human history." He has his elbows on the desk, his hands raised and fingers steepled, and Jonathan finds himself struck by the intensity of his glare. "The cure for cancer. And heart disease. And diabetes. Tuberculosis. Malaria. AIDS. The end of disease—all with a single pill."

Jonathan falters, boggled at the thought. "That—that sounds—"

"Impossible?" Dracula tilts his head. "A hallmark of Agatha Van Helsing's lifelong compulsion."

"What do you mean?"

"To win. To show that she's right and I'm wrong. To prove that a vampire's blood might be used for a purpose other than evil."

*

Eventually there are no more documents to proofread. Everything is ready: in just a few nights, Dracula and Jonathan will depart the castle, board a cargo ship, and begin what will likely rank among the worst two weeks of Jonathan's life—

Which, considering the last few months he's had, is really saying something. But the idea of occupying such close quarters with the other man fills him with nothing but dread. Part of him wonders if he shouldn't somehow purposely sabotage things. What the hell is he playing at, aiding and abetting Dracula, seeing to his plans—

But how else is he going to get home?

He lets his gaze drift up to the newspaper the Count has lately buried himself in, scanning the headlines for several moments before he notices. "That's Japanese."

Dracula makes a noise of agreement. "Remarkably observant of you, Johnny."

"I don't know Japanese."

Finally Dracula lowers the paper enough to peer over it. "But you have had my blood, so all languages are the same to you now," he says. "You can thank me later."

For once, Jonathan can't muster the will to argue. He feels taken aback, but happily so, as if the Count's curse mightn't come with certain perks.

Best change the subject.

Unfortunately it's the way it felt to kiss him that first comes to mind. "Last night—" Jonathan cuts off. He'd almost sounded contrite, as if he were a naughty schoolboy and the Count his reproving headmaster… and not his captor. His killer.

And yes, his ticket out of this godforsaken place, damn him. He leaves it at, "It didn't mean anything."

"No doubt. One moment you're manifesting as a cloud of dust, and the next you're back in yourself, senses sharp as a knife, quite as ravenous as you've ever felt," Dracula says. His eyes flick down then up. "If it's any consolation, you really are coming along nicely. Most of my brides haven't made it past the honeymoon. And here you are, new as you are… so eager to learn."

Newspaper discarded, the vampire leans further across the desk so that their hands almost touch.

Jonathan pulls back, dropping his own into his lap, grateful that a tight enough grip hides the tremor. "I didn't think I had a choice."

Dracula smiles. "That's the spirit."

Chapter Text

And anyway, they'd only had sex once.

All the other times were just another part of the spell Dracula cast over Jonathan in those weeks he spent bringing him back from the brink of death. In idle moments, Jonathan remembers the way Dracula had held him. How his body fit into Dracula's long arms and strong grip, cradled as if he were something precious, because or in spite of the unspeakable act of violence being committed against him.

Too: Jonathan recalls Dracula's hands and Dracula's teeth and Dracula's cock, and the many ways Dracula claimed him, night after cold night in the darkness of the tomb – a goddamned dream, the memory sizzles – until he rose again. A vampire.

Even though the fact of the event is enlarged to shocking proportions in Jonathan's mind, it still had only been the once.

*

Night by night, Jonathan comes to identify most of the knocks and thumps that had so frightened him, before. The source of the drips and bumps and creaks and moans…

And for the first time, with his sharpened hearing, he also notices the incomprehensible chittering of several hundred slowly rotting revenants, boxed up and locked away in the depths of the castle crypt.

In a word: horrible.

"Do they remember?" Jonathan wants to know. "Who they were? Or what you did to them?"

Dracula shrugs. "Some of them, maybe. But mostly they can't think beyond how hungry they are."

Jonathan swallows. He's only just drained his second glass of the evening—to think of those poor souls, trapped as they are, touched by vampirism but never having properly fed, makes him simmer with anger. "Can't you end their suffering?"

"Of course I could."

"How?"

"Oh, the usual ways..."

"How?" Jonathan repeats, belatedly realizing that what he's really asking is for Dracula to lay out his own weaknesses. And why the hell not? It stands to reason that they must now too be Jonathan's.

Count Dracula gives him a level look. Then he says, slowly and deliberately, "Holy water. The sign of the cross. Crucifixes and sacramental bread. Garlic flowers. Fire. All possess the power to impede a vampire's advances—especially weaker-minded ones, like our friends in the basement."

"And to kill one?"

"No doubt you won't be getting any ideas, my dear. I assure you that any attempt on my life will claim yours."

"As if knowing what to look out for isn't an integral part of my bloody education."

Dracula smiles. "A wooden stake through the heart," he says, "or the removal of the head."

It takes Jonathan a moment to process this. Then: "Sounds like something out of a horror film."

In fact, it's worse. His previous attempts to physically fight back against the Count had been fantastically cathartic but ultimately futile. He imagines wielding a knife sharp enough to complete the job, and how a stake might feel in his hands—

And he likes to think that when the time comes, he'll be able to do it.

Chapter Text

From among Jonathan's modest collection of suits, he'd brought his best ones with him to Transylvania.

But now the blue pinstripe has a nasty tear, the brown a bloody stain, and the grey's simply gone, vanished without a trace—so when the Count orders him to "wear something nice" tonight, he's left with the black three-piece. Packed just in case he needed something formal, it's a stodgy affair which always hung weird around his shoulders, typically reserved for funerals and council meetings.

And yet putting it on, it's not how he remembers. It fits him. He can't be sure without looking in a mirror – a sickening reality he has yet to come to terms with – but it's almost as though he's grown since the last time he wore it, gained muscle, the contours of his body here and there filling out the tailored wool.

He tugs on the cuffs and brushes a speck of lint from the lapel and feels, for once, nearly civilized.

*

Not so these assembled masses.

Dracula's minions: wolves and corvidae and bats and all the myriad children of the night, howling and crowing and chittering in slathering cacophony, gathered in and about the castle's overgrown yard to hold court for their master. Jonathan has a sense that the beasts pose little danger to him, and then again, he's too awestruck by the scene to be frightened.

Dracula is… also distracting. Decked to the teeth like some old school aristo, with an enormous ruby and gold pendant pinned at his throat—to say nothing of his tux. He looks good. And terrible. And greater than himself. And stood here at the top of the great stairs with the sky roiling electric and the shadows amassing, his eyes glowing hellishly red, his fangs bared, he looks like some dark god.

He begins to speak. Jonathan can tell at once that it isn't English, even though it occurs to him thus in his mind. No; what's nested beneath, translated in a sort of verbal palimpsest, is Romanian.

Count Dracula gives his orders. And then he pulls a long, silver dagger from his coat. In a single quick motion, he slashes a cut across his palm, observing the flow for a moment before splattering a trail of blood over the stone before him. On his word, the wolves move forward, hungrily, so that in time they've each had a taste.

Jonathan isn't immune to the sight—the scent of it. His jaw tingles along his gum line before his fangs descend; a purely erotic sensation heightened for the way Dracula's gaze is locked with his, and fuck how he wants—

He doesn't know what. He doesn't move. And by the bye, it's over.

The animals scatter. Jonathan is once again left alone with his maker. "What now?"

There are lines tugging Dracula's eyes were there weren't before, and the hair at his temples has gone silver. He smiles. "What d'you say we grab a nightcap?"

*

In fact, they grab three.

Chapter Text

"Ta very much," says Jonathan, after Dracula tells him he'll be giving him the night off—though the flick of his tongue against his fangs produces a lisp, all but stripping the sentiment of its sarcasm.

Damn. He's going to have to work on that.

Still, it's a wonder that for once his wish aligns with Dracula's will. If the bastard isn't lying, and they really are leaving tomorrow, he only has so much time to gather his wits, not to mention his belongings… But he feels jittery. Slightly untethered, unsure in so many ways how he'll cope, as he is now, in his old life; yet needing to believe that once he gets back to London, things will somehow, someway straighten out. The thought keeps him going.

And to his word, the Count leaves him to his own devices – along with the rest of the bottle they've been sharing – to pack first in the crypt, where he's amassed a small collection of personal effects, and then his former suite.

The sight of it still shocks him. He'd hesitated to even come, not wanting to revisit what Dracula had wrought on the one place in the castle he'd once felt safe—those mad days and dark nights, agonizing hours spent writhing in his sheets. A man gone mad, terrorized by a vampire called Count Dracula.

How can he call any aspect of what he'd endured safe?

And of course Dracula already stole his valuables. He hasn't seen his passport or wallet since May. But he finds his wristwatch ticking away and some clothes hanging in the battered wardrobe, a couple of newspapers he'd held onto for the crosswords since Heathrow, and beneath the debris of the bed, a single shoe, his shaving kit, and his book of CDs.

Like everything else he'd put in his backpack the day he tried to escape, his Discman is gone. The tangible reminders of his former self fill him with a longing sharp enough to twist his guts, the blood he's drunk tonight suddenly turning sour. It's an effort to squelch the feeling of hopelessness.

But he does. And then he takes everything he can.

Unfortunately he also finds his old suitcase buried amid the pulverized sideboard: similarly pulverized. No choice but to use the four-piece Gucci luggage set Dracula presented him with earlier, though damned if he's agreeing to call it a wedding gift.

*

Last stop: the library.

Jonathan takes his time. It isn't as if he doesn't know the way; but something makes him peer into each room he passes, as if to memorize, to convince himself that every improbable thing he's witnessed in this place has been real—and mindful that he may never again return.

Hoping it's so. Realizing that as madly, keenly, bloody glad as he is to get the hell out of here, he probably won't again see this magnificent hall lit to the rafters, as it is now.

He just might've guessed Dracula would be here too.

Chapter Text

"Hello, Johnny," says Dracula, turning from the open window he's stood beside. It's a warm night. Jonathan can smell the sweet, layered fragrance of the woods beyond the castle… and also Dracula's cologne.

"Is that bloody Calvin Kline?"

Dracula tilts his head. "Do you like it?"

"Not particularly," Jonathan lies. In fact it draws him in, though he's tempted to make it a heel-turn and get out of here, that this might be his last chance to grab reading material before they leave be damned. He gestures, vaguely, at the nearest bookshelf. "D'you mind if I…"

"Not at all." A smile. "And perhaps you'll accept a recommendation." Dracula pulls a slim volume from a nearby stack, inspecting the spine a moment before extending it to Jonathan. "Have you read it?"

To Jonathan's surprise, it's a book he hasn't thought about in… decades, probably. But once so well-loved that he'd worn through three copies—all but memorized his favorite bits if not the lot, seeing himself within those pages more than anywhere else up to that point.

He feels a sort of vertigo holding it in his hands. Had he read it? "Yeah," he says, "once or twice. Wonder if it still holds up."

"Only one way to find out."

Unthinking, Jonathan slides it into his satchel. Then he grabs a couple more books from the same stack, King's latest and an interesting looking book of poetry, before turning his attention to the wall of mid-century literature to his left.

The Count meanwhile goes back to the window. His face takes on a curious look, his features turning in a way Jonathan doesn't feel qualified to decipher—hell. As if he knows anything about the man at all.

But if he had to call it something, it would be simply… sad.

"You're going to miss this place, aren't you?" he offers. He remembers the epic tales Dracula regaled him with over dinner, in those early days. How impressed he'd been by Dracula's knowledge of history.

Now Dracula's eyes narrow, considering. "I am bound to it," he says. "The wolves are my eyes and ears on the ground, especially in my absence, but they can only do so much."

As if in answer, the chorus of howling outside redoubles, raising the hairs at Jonathan's nape. It occurs to him suddenly that he might somehow make sense of it—then he blurts out: "Holy fuck, I can really hear them."

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

Jonathan sighs, "Yes."

Dracula is suddenly very close. "This power we share," he says. "You feel it."

"I don't know what I feel—"

Closer still. Jonathan has to look up to meet Dracula's eyes. He can almost feel the brush of his body against his own, and then he does, all down the length of him. "Tell me to stop, Jonathan, and I will."

Jonathan swallows. "Don't stop." Then Dracula takes Jonathan's face in his long, cold hand, tilts it up, and kisses him.

God damn him, Jonathan kisses back.

Chapter Text

Dracula's mouth is cold too, his lips soft, and his teeth very, very sharp.

Jonathan hisses in a breath when Dracula grazes his tongue, though it's not deep enough to draw blood—and not painful enough for Jonathan to pull back from the kiss.

He has his hands fisted in Dracula's shirtfront while Dracula's are en route down Jonathan's spine, settling on Jonathan's hips before rounding to make quick work of his belt; if only he'd find similar success with Dracula's buttons. But then again, his hands are shaking and every inch of him feels at once electrified, overstimulated, and touch-starved. He struggles to focus on anything at all, let alone everything. It's like Dracula has him surrounded. Like he's been taken; and part of him knows he might never get out.

But does he want this? Hell yeah.

Dracula pushes him backward a step so he's pressed against the bookshelf, by now having zipped open Jonathan's trousers to slide his fingers inside, into his boxers, and stroke along the rock hard length of his cock. He smiles, wolfishly. "And here I thought you didn't like me."

"No," says Jonathan, "I hate you. There's a difference."

Dracula shakes his head, but his expression is indulgent. "Bloody lawyers," he scoffs. Before Jonathan can offer a rebuttal, he finds himself being lifted off the floor – fuck, he's strong – and against the shelf so that they're poised eye-to-eye.

"I really should take you downstairs," Dracula says, "so we can consummate this properly. But I find I can't help myself—and, well—the night is still young."

Then he kisses Jonathan again.

His touch is like ice. But so is Jonathan's.

It's only another minute until Dracula has both their cocks aligned in his fist and is pumping them together slowly, sweetly, still supporting most of Jonathan's weight and Jonathan clinging on for dear life. There are probably ten thousand pounds' worth of first editions currently being trampled on the library floor. It's terrifying. It's amazing. He's never going to fucking last.

At least Dracula isn't doing much better. His hair has partially slipped out of its tie to fall loosely over his shoulders, and the whites of his eyes are beginning to go red. He looks wild. When he mouths at Jonathan's throat, laving, nipping, Jonathan shivers with pleasure; his bite doesn't break the skin.

But Jonathan's, when he leans in to return the favor, does.

It's the fangs. Jonathan still hasn't got the hang of the fangs. But damned if he's ever felt something so glorious as when the flesh gives way and Dracula's blood splashes across his tongue. He opens wide for it, drinking greedily – coming hard too, in messy red-tinted jets between them, though the sex has somehow become an afterthought – before Dracula pulls him off.

"Ah ah ah. That's enough for now."

Jonathan barely hears him, too dazzled by the flavor of Dracula's blood to fight him from picking him up fully and, like a bride, carrying him away.

Chapter Text

From all the fantasy comics Jonathan read as a teenager, he'd expected that swearing an oath of fealty to a dark lord would demand an altar—a chalice—at the very least a book of unholy scripture.

But in fact it only takes the two of them sat face to face on Dracula's big bed, naked.

And the words.

Dracula first and Jonathan repeating, after which Dracula's expression turns triumphant, and he draws Jonathan into his arms to kiss him with a sharpness that makes Jonathan gasp. "Jonathan, my best beloved one," he says, between kisses, amid bites. "At first I doubted having to seduce you all over again, but I must say I've rather enjoyed it."

Jonathan turns away slightly, fighting the feeling of shame. He's off-kilter. Certainly not up to making life-changing decisions; but his survival instinct is strong. "That isn't—I'm not..."

"To blame," Dracula finishes. He strokes Jonathan's cheek, then tips his chin so Jonathan is forced to meet his gaze. "There is nothing you could have done, my dear. From the moment I delivered you here, you were mine. And now you shall come to my call. When my brain says 'Come!' to you, you shall cross land or sea to do my bidding."

Jonathan smiles tightly. "That sounds like a threat."

Dracula smiles too. "More like a promise. And a term of your reemployment," he says. And, because Jonathan's surprise must show: "You didn't really think you'd be returning to Holmwood and Holmwood when we get to London, did you? To that end…"

For the second time in his life, Jonathan gapes as Dracula opens a vein on his chest and bids him drink. But unlike before, the sight does anything but disgust him. At Dracula's signal, he practically lunges at the cut, panting he's so eager to have a taste, the splash he'd had in the library only whetting his appetite. And when he does: bliss.

Sanguine, sharp as a knife, the blood of Dracula rocks Jonathan's world. Intoxicating. He can feel the horrible scope of the Count's existence in each ruby gulp, memories spun out in a reel of images so fractured that Jonathan struggles to suss them out—Dracula as a boy and a warlord and a vampire. Endless waves of memory – death beyond reckoning—and life too, here and there – threatening to overwhelm.

But he wants more.

"Good boy," Dracula's hand settles on the back of Jonathan's head. "Now you belong to me."

Jonathan probably moans. He's definitely hard. His body feels electrified, activated in strange and marvelous ways—and when Dracula at last pulls him off, the fight in him is only diminished by the fact that it's so he can instead push him down onto the bed.

Jonathan's vision is blown-out, tinted red. But certain things are clear enough: Dracula pouring sweet-smelling oil into his palm and slicking himself and then Jonathan, his claw-tipped fingers none too careful pushing into Jonathan's hole, before he finally, finally fucks him.

Chapter Text

There's a lot of blood.

Some of it's Jonathan's and some of it's Dracula's and some of it's spilled from the bottle they've been sharing, and Jonathan has never felt this good in his life.

He's sat astride Dracula's lap. He's riding him, exquisitely filled, rocking forward as far as he can before sinking down again, re-impaling himself, taking Dracula to the hilt. It's no small effort. The Count is fucking hung, long and girthy besides, and he stretches Jonathan in unbelievable ways, filling him to the max—but fortunately, Jonathan's vampiric body doesn't mind the challenge.

Nor does he tire easily. They've been at it for hours, barely breaking in-between, so that by now the edges of Jonathan's mind have started to alert him to the oncoming dawn. The urge to retire to the tomb is growing—but the urge to come again is stronger.

How many times? Four? Five? He thinks he can go on forever if it means feeling like this.

All horror has left him.

From this angle, he has a clear view of his own cock, flesh gone eerily pale as the rest of him save for the scarlet-flushed veins. He's achingly hard, longing for contact, leaking an obscene amount of pre-come over Dracula's hairy stomach.

But the monster just smiles. "That's it, darling," he says, though a mouth of jagged teeth. He looks wild, like an animal. The whites of his eyes are blasted red, the black of his beard is stained and sticky, and Jonathan hates how hot he finds him. "Don't hold back."

Jonathan huffs out a breath. "Speak for yourself, old man."

Could the rumble of Dracula's laughter be limned in real surprise? In retaliation, he shifts their angle just enough to hit Jonathan's prostate dead-on, making Jonathan moan. Another minute and he's done for, toes curling as he comes in copious, red-tinted spurts over Dracula's torso. Somehow, this orgasm is stronger than earlier ones—and Dracula fucks him through it, stroking Jonathan's flanks before settling his hands on his waist. The grip gives him purchase to drive even further in.

"Ah! Fuck," Jonathan's moan becomes a whimper. He's overstimulated, strung-out. But Dracula takes and takes, pistoning hard, fingers gripping deep. The pain is sharp—Jonathan wonders if he'll have bruises—and he lurches forward to grab at the headboard and shift himself partially up.

This time it's his turn to surprise his maker. A quick twist of his still-entrapped hips sets Dracula swearing floridly in Romanian, which Jonathan's brain translates as the ever-elegant: "Motherfucker!"

It's an odd sensation when the Count comes. Jonathan's oversensitive body can feel the twitch of his cock inside him, and the wetness of his spend; he can scent every layer of their sex.

When Dracula helps him down and they're back stretched on the bedsheets, it seems only natural to drift off in his arms. Lastly: the press of a dry, chaste kiss to the crown of his head, and the whisper, "Sweet dreams, Johnny."

Chapter Text

Why is it so dark?

In the beginning, it's always dark.

So how can I see?

Simple, darling. Open your eyes.

*

Jonathan does.

And gradually, his vision tints from black to red, the incomprehensible void shifting into a landscape—largely barren save for a few scraggly trees, and at some distance what look to be the ruins of an ancient structure, the whole thing bathed in dank, crimson light.

Stood at the center of it all is Count Dracula. He looks elegant and bold, dressed in black from head to toe, worlds apart from the desolate scene. He tilts his head. "Hello, Johnny."

"What is this?" Jonathan wants to know. "Where've you dragged me to now?"

Dracula demures, "Don't you recognize it?"

Jonathan glares at him but takes another look around. Perhaps there is something about this place—something Jonathan recognizes. The scent of it—or the sound. Though the sky is still obscured, if the rumbling overhead is anything to go by, there's a storm coming on.

Dracula is still staring at him.

Jonathan stares back. He wonders, had they really just fucked for hours? Hell, he could've probably gone longer. "All right. We're in a staging of Waiting for Godot," he says, "that’s on crack."

This at least earns him a raised eyebrow. The Count steps forward, his cape billowing softly about him as he moves. "Of course I've done a bit of redecorating since I got here."

Jonathan swallows. "You don't mean..."

"Your mind, Johnny," says Dracula. "Your dreams."

"I don't want you here."

"Then you shouldn't have invited me." By now Dracula is stood right before him, and he reaches out to run the tips of his fingers over Jonathan's brow, his cheekbones and nose, taking time on each contour as if to memorize before brushing the pad of his thumb over Jonathan's lips.

"I didn't know." Jonathan's voice is shaky. "I didn't know."

"I know. But here we are nonetheless," Dracula says, and then dips in to kiss him. Then: "You have a beautiful mind, Jonathan Harker. I've especially enjoyed exploring that lovely hallway full of doors where you keep all your very favorite things."

Jonathan's thoughts flash to the kid in Grandfather's study. "Don't you dare fucking touch him—"

Dracula cuts him off, "I won't. Not unless I have reason."

Should Jonathan believe him? Does he have any choice? "You still haven't told me why we're here."

Backing up enough to gesture around him: "Think of this," he says, "as a blank canvas. Primordial. Malleable. " He snaps his fingers. "Bountiful."

A small table has appeared at their side, holding two glasses of blood. Dracula takes one and gives the other to Jonathan, and for his part, Jonathan pauses before slugging it back. "But this isn't real, is it?"

"Ask me that again, after I've had you here," Dracula says menacingly, though Jonathan can see the smile in his eyes. "And when I teach you how to fight here, I trust you won't hold back."

Chapter Text

Jonathan wakes in the clutches of Count Dracula—

Naked. Dracula's chest to Jonathan's back, his arm slung over Jonathan's waist. Spooned snugly, though not uncomfortably. Jonathan can feel the occasional in-out of cool breath at the nape of his neck. The sun has set. There's a hint of breeze drifting through the window, green and sultry with the scents of summer, though the curtains are still pulled tight.

He realizes: they're in Dracula's bedroom—Dracula's bed—and the sheets are fucking ruined.

It all comes back to him. And in a rarity since being born into this living nightmare, he's sated enough that his mind circles foremost to something other than blood. Experimentally, he rolls his hips backward, letting his ass rub against the Count's impressive evening wood. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," Dracula rumbles at once, his voice so close and deep it seems to reverberate through Jonathan's core. "Although as you come to know me, my dear, you'll find first that I don't in fact sleep. And second... " His hand drifts up Jonathan's torso, over his pecs, to settle, splayed, on his throat. His teeth are very close. "That I can never resist temptation."

Jonathan swallows. "Go on then."

Dracula does.

When offered, Jonathan takes Dracula's fingers into his mouth, slathering them to Dracula's satisfaction before he works them round Jonathan's arsehole. After the previous night's activities, Jonathan would have expected to be – if not bruised and battered – at least sore.

But he isn't: score one for the old vampiric constitution.

And so this hurt is fresh—the stretch when Dracula pushes into him agonizingly present, his whole goddamed length buried by way of a single, powerful thrust. And the pleasure? Jonathan supposes the Count must by now know many of his outs and ins. His toes curl when Dracula pulls back enough to reposition himself, angling, before pounding in again.

"Fuck!" Jonathan huffs. "How about a bit of warning, eh?"

"Needs must," Dracula chuckles, the sound darkly indulgent. "Our journey tonight will be long—and the darkness fleeting."

Still, it's another couple of minutes – time seeming deliciously drawn out as Jonathan edges closer to climax – before Dracula sets his hand round Jonathan's cock—and his fangs to Jonathan's flesh.

Say it.

Master—!

The wound isn't deep. But the sensation is intense, as erotic as it is painful. Jonathan spills into Dracula's fist, riding a wave of pleasure as right after him, Dracula comes too, Jonathan's name a snarl on his lips.

Jonathan feels mad. A man possessed. Also: beautifully, wonderfully—exquisitely shagged out.

*

After, Dracula laves at the bite marks on Jonathan's neck as they heal, leaving no trace of blood or gore. And when Jonathan wonders with some surprise how it is they've spent the day out of the crypt, he says, consideringly, "Enough blood has painted these walls, enough earth dirtied the floors, that this entire castle is my coffin. And yours too."

While Jonathan somehow knows it to be true, it comes as little comfort.

Chapter Text

They take the Jag.

A custom number in black and chrome, it's the newest vehicle in the Count's garage: sleek, fast, and equipped with every conceivable button, knob, or screen—including a SatNav fit for MI6, all the better to ensure they'll arrive in Varna before daybreak.

"What if we don't?" Jonathan asks, grimacing. It's not that he relishes staying on at the castle one iota longer than he has to—but he has to know. "The drive will take us hours. What if we hit bad weather—or a holdup on the motorway—or—"

"Jonathan," says Dracula, low, steadying.

Along the still-perceptible string of their telepathic bond, and Dracula's blood yet singing in his veins, Jonathan feels a tug—and snaps to attention. Then: "Maybe you'll be fine, but won't I just be—vaporized or something?"

"Actually, you'd crumble into dust, but who's counting." Dracula leans into the car to flick a switch beneath the driver's console. In a moment, a ratcheting sound starts up, followed by the emergence of a full set of metal blackout shutters which slide down the each window pane, effectively blocking all light from reaching inside. He looks back at Jonathan, arching a brow. "Satisfied?"

"I'm a lawyer," says Jonathan, simply.

As before, all those weeks ago on the train platform in Bistrița, he watches Dracula load his baggage into the boot. But this time there's no subterfuge. Dracula makes no attempt to hide his strength, and Jonathan makes no attempt to quit ogling his rear, and it's a good thing Dracula already sent his things along to their ship because Jonathan bloody refused to pack light.

*

There were times, in Jonathan's darker moments, he was certain he would never escape this place.

The walls of Castle Dracula held him too close, its echoes tremored through him too deep—its terror curdled his dreams for too long to have it cleared from his soul. He feels laden. Drawn to depths he can hardly name—and him too: none but the master of the house.

The Count uses his teeth to pull off one of his driving gloves before setting to work on the keypad inlaid beside the castle's huge front door. Moments later, the lock's internal mechanism clanks into life and a set of heavy pistons rotate to secure it.

"One can never be too careful," Dracula says, stepping back. "Between the finest private security system money can buy—and my company of wolves—I've not had a break-in in years."

"And how many break-outs have you had?"

Dracula smiles, knife-sharp. "Now now, Johnny. Don't be cheeky." The leather of Dracula's glove is supple on Jonathan's skin when he tilts his chin up for a kiss. Then a bite. Then: "Now be a good boy, and get in the car."

Jonathan does.

*

There were times, in Jonathan's darker moments, he was certain he would never…

But as he watches the hulking shape of Castle Dracula fade in the rear-view, he knows he was wrong.

Chapter Text

Jonathan meanwhile casts no reflection at all.

Repeatedly, accidentally and on purpose, like an itch he must scratch, he flicks his gaze toward the Jaguar's wing-mirror. Then the rear-view. Then the little bulb-lit glass hidden in the visor in which he finds himself staring back into the car, straight through the spot where he should be.

The effect is uncanny. Jarring. He suddenly understands with certain acuity why the Count hasn't any mirrors hanging at the castle. Every fibre in him demands he look away—

But first, there's something he wants to check. He drops his hand into the center console, fishing around until he finds… 10 Lei. The coin is newly minted, shiny against the skin of his palm, and when he holds it in front of the mirror, he watches with sickened fascination as it appears to hover before him.

Slowly, he moves it from side to side, then top to bottom. Then he tries opening and closing his hand around it, making it blink in and out of sight. Then he does it all again with the other hand; shaking by now. Then, with gathering dread, he scrambles for what else he can try.

A biro; a compact motorway atlas; the flask of blood Dracula gave him for the drive, already largely depleted.

Oh. Well. Bottoms up. By the time Jonathan's drunk the last, he's begun to cry—real, red, gulping sobs that wrench up from the pit of his chest, out through his mouth in piteous moans, ugly, his fucking fangs always in the way—

And he feels more than sees Dracula decelerate the car. Stops them right there in the middle of the road, like he owns the goddamned place. "Jonathan."

Jonathan sniffles, "We're going to hold up traffic."

"There's no one. And I can't have you ruining the upholstery." Dracula shuts the visor. Then he reaches into his jacket, retrieving a handkerchief. "If it makes you feel any better, it gets easier."

"What does? Not really existing?" Reluctantly, Jonathan takes a deep breath. Then he takes the handkerchief. Wiping his nose, he says, "I just don't understand how it's possible. It violates the laws of bloody physics—"

"Johnny."

Jonathan looks up. "What?"

"Let it go." Dracula's eyes look very red. "Under the seat, you'll find a wallet of CDs. Why don't you put something on?"

Jonathan swallows. "CDs?" He finishes with the handkerchief before reaching for the wallet. It's only a fraction of the Count's collection, but he takes his time sliding a disc free. Then: "No peeking."

Dracula smiles. "Of course not."

Jonathan waits for Dracula to get them going again before feeding the CD into the player. There's a brief pause, and then—

*

Jonathan reclines his seat fully back. It suits to just listen. The Count's a good driver—and fast. From this vantage, he can see the moon through the window, high above. The mountains are gradually becoming foothills, bright with civilization.

And at last his vampire ears attune: thump-thump, thump-thump...

Chapter Text

It's…

Beautiful. Like a rhythm Jonathan already knows by rote, the sound of it as as lovely as any song he's ever heard. As catchy. As captivating.

As alive.

And it makes his senses hone in, hyper-aware thump-thump, thump-thump and his fangs tingle with want thump-thump, thump-thump and his nostrils flare, attempting to scent thump-thump, thump-thump—

And his heart sink, when he realizes what it is.

*

"Stay in the car."

They've rolled into the sprawling shipyard less than an hour before dawn, and the place is bustling. Cranes and haulers and fuel vans and people. So many people.

Jonathan thought he'd never again see so many people.

He's been imagining this very moment, of flying into the arms of the first passerby he meets outside the castle, emptying his pockets, and crying for help, for months. Yet in a cruel proof of what's changed, now he's here, he feels practically bolted to his seat. Struck docile. Dumbfounded by the stink of the sea and the clamor of voices and the elegant way the Count unfolds from the driver's seat—by the beating and beating and beating of blood—

There's a lot to suss out. It takes effort to focus.

But he still wants to know: "What are you doing?"

"Just a few final arrangements." Dracula gives him an even look before shutting the door, leaving no room for argument. There's a double beep as he arms the security system.

"Bastard." Jonathan glares at him, though the Count is by now crossing the car park to another idling vehicle—this one a covered lorry.

In a moment, a man hops out from the cab and bends into a deep bow. Dracula extends his hand, and the man takes it to apparently kiss his signet ring… while Jonathan could bloody well kiss his preternatural eyesight.

To Jonathan's surprise, Dracula pulls the man up and into an embrace, receiving a familiar clap on the back in return. Together, talking, they walk back to the Jaguar, and Dracula opens the door for Jonathan.

"Come," he says. "It's all right."

Uncertainly, Jonathan gets out. He's aware of Dracula watching him. And so too, closely, the man.

Older than Jonathan by a decade or more, he looks sturdy; handsomely weathered; and agent of darkness or no, not likely the sort Jonathan would've fucked with when he was alive.

A voice in him asks: And now?

"Jonathan, I'd like you to meet Emil," Dracula continues. "His family has served me for nine generations, and tonight he's been kind enough to transport our coffins."

Jonathan keeps his hands firmly at his side, clenched. He can almost taste him.

"Hello," he says, quietly.

Dracula turns back to Emil, and says, in Romanian, "Your loyalty will be rewarded." He hands over the keys to the car, along with a thick wad of bank notes extracted from his coat pocket. Then he takes Jonathan firmly by the arm and leads him towards the ship presently loading to their side—

DEMETER II.

Chapter Text

Wall-to-wall hardwood flooring. A couple of plush leather chairs. A low table, a drawered cabinet, a sink, a bar laid out with a variety of crystal-ware, and a sleek little wine fridge, no doubt loaded with blood. A plasma television set flanked by spinning towers of VHS tapes. A chess board. Books in abundance.

A bed made up in black. A potted plant. And ample lighting, despite there being no windows—

Not bad, for a prison cell.

Jonathan stops himself before asking how Dracula expects them to reach the refurbished shipping container's loft space, and their coffins, without a ladder. But he'd still like to know: "Is that a fucking Galaga machine?"

Dracula says, indulgent, "Supposedly there's also a Nintendo hiding around here somewhere."

Jonathan's eyes narrow. From the still-open hatch, he can see the sky beginning to go rosy—and beside it, the keypad lock set into the wall, ready to be armed. What choice does he have but to continue forward if it means he'll get to see his cat again—not to mention Jack and Arthur and Lucy—hell, even Quincey. And Mina too.

The Count is staring at him, apparently expecting a response.

"Why?" Jonathan asks at last. "Why go to all this trouble?"

"I want you to be comfortable."

"Why?"

"If my generosity confounds you, my dear," Dracula says, automatically, "I'll simply arrange for you to spend the next two weeks in the ship's hold, sealed in one of our boxes of dirt."

Jonathan says through gritted teeth, "No."

Dracula smiles. "Good."

*

"You might feel a slight discomfort as we leave port."

In the narrow space of the loft, presently halfway-hunched over Jonathan's open coffin, the Count has to fold his tall frame nearly in two. Jonathan would find it comical if it didn't put the other vampire's face in alarming proximity to his own.

He thinks, rather sullenly, that he'd like to kiss him goodnight.

Then Dracula's words catch up to him. He asks, "What do you mean?"

"Some tingling in your limbs, perhaps. Perhaps a little pain," Dracula tells him. And then: "A formality of our kind. The open water seldom welcomes we who are so tied to the earth."

"It sounds like bullshit," Jonathan says, though it's really only that he's too exhausted to process what Dracula means. It feels good to stretch out properly; that he should be so changed seems—if not impossible, at least unlikely.

Dracula says, "You still have a lot to learn, Johnny. But I must say... you're doing very well."

"Thanks," Jonathan says, despite himself. Nearly falling asleep. And yes, by now feeling the weird mechanisms of his body prickle as almost imperceptibly slow, the ship begins to pull out.

The last thing Jonathan sees before he loses consciousness is the the blinking red-blue-yellow lights of the arcade console below, shinning in a reflected splatter across the soundproofed wall, just behind Dracula's head—the gleam of Dracula's sharp white teeth—and the coffin lid closing tight.

Chapter Text

"You've changed again."

"What do you mean?"

"I dunno. There's something in your eyes, maybe."

"Yeah? And maybe you just need to get your glasses checked," says Jonathan, stretched out belly down on the floor of the room at the heart of his mind palace. He isn't sure when he stopped thinking of the place as his grandfather's study, and simply where it's safe.

Carefully, he advances a black checker on the game board.

The kid still hasn't replied. But he does move one of his reds—then he moves it again. And once more, swiftly hopping over most of Jonathan's remaining pieces, handily claiming the match.

Bloody hell, he's good.

While resetting the board, as casually as he can, Jonathan asks, "Has the Count been round?"

At last the kid looks up. He nods. "Yes."

"And have you… has he got in?"

The kid shakes his head, shortly.

"Good," Jonathan sighs, relieved. "That's good." Then: "Shall we go once more?"

*

He sees nothing.

But he can feel the pull of the tide.

Hear the lapping of waves.

Smell the stink of burning fuel.

And – almost – sense the heat of the sun.

*

"Come here."

Jonathan's drunk enough since rising tonight that his gaze has begun to tint scarlet. He'd woken up hungry. Agitated. DEMETER II by now truly out to sea, and Jonathan's preternatural body apparently wanting none of it.

Count Dracula on the other hand…

Jonathan asks, "Does this count as doing your dark bidding?"

Dracula grins. "Would you like it to?"

Jonathan shrugs, aiming for insolence but distracted by the act of tipping back his glass—and finding it sadly drained. From beneath his lashes, he watches as Dracula holds up the bottle they've been sharing, inviting.

Damn. He could do with another. It only takes a moment for him to cross the narrow space to where Dracula's seated and hold out his glass. But rather than offer a refill, Dracula lifts it from Jonathan's fingers and sets it on the table nearby.

Then he pulls Jonathan into his lap.

It's a snug fit, to be sure, the Count's big thighs leaving little room on the seat for Jonathan's knees to lock in alongside. But somehow they manage. Jonathan gets his arms braced on the chair back while Dracula's hands round his waist to wind up his back, fingers spreading beneath his t-shirt.

Chest to chest, groin to groin, while Jonathan can feel Dracula's erection through two layers of jeans—

And fortunately, no pants.

Dracula doesn't waste any time freeing both their cocks and getting them lined up in his hand, stroking them together, alternating the pressure but not letting up on pace. Jonathan gasps, involuntarily rocking his hips forward with enough force that the whole chair groans.

"Careful, darling," Dracula says against Jonathan's ear. Jonathan can feel rather than see him smile—and then: "We've only the two."

Dracula's beard is scratchy against Jonathan's cheek. His lips soft; his teeth sharp.

And his mouth tastes of blood.

Chapter Text

Jonathan slams his book shut and throws it across the room—which, seeing as he's stuck in a box the size of a postage stamp, isn't far. The thing hits the wall with a slap before dropping to the floor.

"Not a fan?" Dracula asks, mildly, from the opposite chair.

Jonathan glares at him. "Dunno. Haven't got past the first page," he says. And then, pointing upward: "There are twenty people aboard this ship, and I can hear them. All of them."

All their hearts beating, all the time.

And for a moment, Jonathan finds the beastly thing within him perking up to listen, captivated. Emil, he can tell, is going about his regular rounds. The chief and second officers are at their stations; the galley boy washing up. The captain asleep, but fitfully.

And the others. He says, quieter, "How the hell do you deal with it?"

Finally, Dracula lowers his newspaper. "What, specifically?"

"Being so sensitive." Jonathan swallows. He can feel himself beginning to tear up. "I can pick out the sound of a bloody pin drop from fifty meters away and it's—it's—fuck." He rubs at his eyes, frustrated, unwilling to again become overwhelmed. "You can't expect me to live like this forever."

The Count gives Jonathan a level gaze. Then he reaches into his pocket and offers him a handkerchief. "Why do you think I live alone, in the middle of the woods?" He allows Jonathan a moment to compose himself before continuing, "Give it time. You're still getting used to your powers, but after a while you'll simply become accustomed… or perhaps even come to appreciate it."

Jonathan sniffs. "Powers. I'd give up the lot for a proper pint of Fuller's." He glances at Dracula. "I can't, can I?"

Dracula smiles. "No."

Jonathan looks away again, vaguely ashamed to think they've already done it twice tonight. But just the same, he files away the way the Count's raven-black chest hair is peeking above the undone top buttons of his shirt, and how he wouldn't mind feeling it against his face right about now.

Bollocks. He mutters, "It's impossible to concentrate."

There's a pause, and then Dracula offers, "Then how about you let me." And, when Jonathan nods, indicating the book Jonathan had tossed: "The Crichton over there? Or perhaps something a little lighter..."

Jonathan nods again, bending over to rifle through his satchel. Not the Fielding, or the Renault. The Bradbury? Oh, perhaps this one at the bottom—he doesn't remember putting it here. His old favorite, from when he was a kid—must've been decades since he read it.

But he can hardly remember.

He hands it over. "Not too silly, is it?"

"No. Not at all." Dracula opens to the first page, and if there's a light in his eyes that Jonathan can't name, he dismisses it as soon as that elegant rumble begins to fill the narrow space.

"'In a hole in the ground,'" the Count says, "'there lived a hobbit...'"

Chapter Text

Dracula beckons Jonathan from across the sparring platform, commanding him, "Again!"

They're back in Jonathan's mind palace, on the roiling, ruby tinted abyssal plane, endlessly circling, and Jonathan is hungry for a fight—even if every move he makes ends in him getting decked, tossed, or otherwise manhandled. Dream or no, the physicality feels good after the long hours of confinement.

There's a tingle at the back of his skull, bristling like a frisson of electricity: the uncanny yet unmistakable urge to follow Count Dracula's orders. Well. No problem. This time he opts for a direct attack, running forward at full speed, claws and fangs bared, bloody hissing, before swinging round to get an arm round Dracula's throat in attempt to yank him backward.

It isn't enough to take the larger man down, but Jonathan notices something of a bend in him before he recovers to swiftly sweep Jonathan off his feet, dropping him to the ground.

"Johnny, Johnny." Dracula leans over to stare down at him, dark eyes narrowing. "You released too soon."

Jonathan pushes up on his elbows. He can taste blood in his mouth, though surely that's only in his head. "Just got sick of touching you, I guess."

Dracula smiles. "That's not what you were saying last night."

Jonathan glares at him, scooting backwards and getting to his feet before the Count can offer him a hand up. The last thing he needs right now is to get… distracted. Again. And so a moment later, he's transforming into a red mist, drifting up and over Dracula's head, out of reach.

"Nice try, darling, but ultimately fruitless." Dracula draws a breath so deep it pulls at the clouds above, and Jonathan right along with them. It takes a lot effort to keep his incorporeal form together—but he isn't finished just yet. Quickly, he rematerializes as a bat, and begins pumping his wings to get away.

Then Dracula transforms too.

Jonathan hears himself squeak, his furry body jolting with pain as the wolf's jaws clench down around his middle. Once more, Dracula brings him to the ground with a thud. And once more, his concentration shattered, he shifts back into his own form.

"Fuck," he moans, seeing the red soaking through his t-shirt. "You didn't have to do that."

"You'd do well not to expect mercy," Dracula says, himself again too, "as our adversary will grant none."

"That doesn't mean you get to fucking bite me whenever you want." Jonathan shivers, screwing his eyes up. "Fuck, that's a lot of blood."

"Are you sure?" Dracula asks, dryly. "Perhaps you should look again."

When Jonathan does, he sees the injury has indeed vanished. "But I still felt it," he says, softly. Then: "It was real to me."

His fury suddenly rekindled, he lunges at the Count, getting his hands around his throat, straddling him, and for once well and truly taking him down.

Dracula has the gall to look nonchalant. "Good," he says. "Very good—

"Now let go."

Chapter Text

Jonathan shivers when Dracula pulls out of him, wet cock sliding between his thighs, the sensation of emptiness superseding even the blissed-out haze of his post-orgasmic brain. His body's bitten. Bruised. And now left strangely bereft, as if, traitor that it is, already missing its master's touch.

At least it's not long before Dracula drags him back into an embrace, taking them down to the mattress. A flourish of silk bedding follows. Then, in a rumble against his skin: "That's my Johnny."

Merely kissing this time, Dracula's mouth flits over Jonathan's jaw, to the spot on Jonathan's throat where his fangs sank deepest—where he drank the longest—a tingling and tender welt of flesh that's already begun to heal up, all shiny and new.

A kiss here too.

And Dracula says, "Tell me how you feel."

Jonathan takes his time answering, but in the end just leaves it at, "Good." Because it's true, isn't it?

Even with the way traveling on the open water makes his skin crawl and that the blood he's given is never enough and how at times he knows for certain his mind has begun to unspool… Even though he finds himself wanting to smash the Count through the wall of their steel prison twenty times nightly, he's sure he's never in his life felt so good.

Jonathan leans in when Dracula kisses him again, this time on his lips.

"Yes," Dracula says. "That's good. Now then: the Tolkien?"

Jonathan shrugs. In truth he's fairly fixated on beating the Count's Mario Kart score – like hell the bastard's never played before – but at the moment he doesn't want to do anything but lie here.

He lets his gaze drift between the dark places in the narrow room, picking out details unfathomed by his old eyes. Then a thought bubbles to the surface. He turns to Dracula. "Don't people notice?"

Dracula, all innocence, repeats: "Notice?"

"How you look," Jonathan says, holding up his own hands to show off the unmistakable claws. Then he glances back at the Count. "The fangs? Eyes? For fuck's sake, don't people notice you have pointed ears?"

"You didn't, my dear," Dracula says. "Chances are, people won't take mind of yours either."

"I—what—" Jonathan freezes mid-comeback, disbelieving. But a cursory touch round each edge confirms it's true. Half to himself, he whispers, "Oh shit."

It hadn't occurred to him he might've not stopped changing… or that the changing might not stop.

He remembers rising from his grave. He remembers Dracula professing love. But there's so much more that he forgot, and there's panic and sadness and anger rising in his chest, and not for the first time, he wants to know: "Why did you do this to me?"

Dracula smiles. "Because I wanted to."

"That's it?"

"Isn't that enough?" Dracula replies, low. "My want. My hunger—demanding nothing less than to devour you whole. Besides, darling. It's the nineties." He smiles, all teeth and charm. "Every monster needs his own personal attorney."

Chapter Text

Jonathan is pacing the narrow room like an animal at the zoo, front, side, back, side, around and around, demanding of his captor, "You've got to let me out. I need to get the fuck out of here!"

On his warpath, he already tipped the bookshelf. What's to stop him from toppling the arcade machine next? He's always hated Galaga anyway, to hell with being stuck in the middle of the ocean with nothing to bloody do—

All while the Count, unperturbed, sits, reading the newspaper.

Another turn round the container with Jonathan scarcely slowing to growl: "And you dare insinuate that I asked for this life. That I wanted it."

At last Dracula lowers his paper – yesterday's edition: Jonathan's mind handily translates the headlines from Greek – and looks up. He's actually chuckling. "Didn't you, though? In your deepest imaginings, didn't you long for a keener intellect? A fitter body?" He raises an eyebrow. "The best lay of your life?"

Jonathan's glare turns into a scowl. "Oh. So you think you can just fuck me into submission. And I'll play nice and be your lapdog, right? Well, fuck you."

"Sure. Or we could play chess."

"I don't want to play chess. I want to get out of this fucking box."

But just as Jonathan starts going again, he feels a tingling in his skull and Dracula is holding his eye—so very red—

No. Jonathan knows exactly where this is going. Before the Count can take hold of him, he makes a blind, vaulting jump upwards and out, towards the improvised loft holding their coffins.

It gets him there.

Instinctively, he pulls his legs up over the edge, tucking in as far as he can. Uncomfortable. Poorly ventilated. But at least he can't see Dracula.

And why not have a proper sulk. Or perhaps rest his eyes…

*

"Johnny…" The Count's rumbling voice drifts up from below. "If you decide you'd like to behave yourself, my offer still stands."

Jonathan blinks, feeling at once sluggish and sharp. Had he fallen asleep?

Why the hell is he hiding up here?

He asks, quite nonplussed, "What offer?" When Dracula doesn't immediately respond, Jonathan peers down to see the other man seated in his chair, as per usual—but too, there's a beautifully carved wooden chess set arranged on the coffee table.

Dracula motions to Jonathan's own, waiting seat. "Please, my dear," he says. "Join me."

And when was the last time Jonathan played? Does he remember any openings—or even all the rules? But something in him reassures that he needn't worry…

"Oh. Er—yes. Just a moment," he says. As carefully as he can, he lowers himself back to the ground level, taking his time to straighten his clothes before joining Dracula at the table.

There's a glass of blood for him too. He glances at the Count.

Dracula nods. "Go ahead."

Jonathan doesn't hesitate. The ruby draught goes down sweetly—then another—and then again: Dracula gives him the first move.

Chapter Text

Light as a feather, fashioned of gilt and black cardboard and narrower than Jonathan's own palm, the box is what any shop down the high street might use to wrap up a little something for that special someone.

Yet a determined rattle reveals naught. And of course Count Dracula's gifts never really are.

Jonathan looks up, skeptical. "If it's a severed head, I'm going to be very upset."

Dracula doesn't budge. "Go on," he urges with a smile that seems to ask, Aren't you curious?

Well, isn't he? A second more, hesitantly expectant, and he lifts the lid—only to jolt backwards so hard he almost upends his chair. As if burned, he tosses it away, shrinking back.

"What the—" Jonathan's sight blares with afterglow, fractured, like he'd been staring into a bright light. Angrily, he rubs at his eyes. He's tearing up a bit, the red clouding things further, but he manages to huff in Dracula's general direction, "What the actual hell?"

"Quite the opposite, in fact." Dracula bends to retrieve the box, and turns it in his hands slowly. "I suppose I might have better prepared you for that, but I wanted to see how you'd react."

"Are you mad? Get that thing away from me," Jonathan demands. Then: "What do you mean, react?"

Dracula arches a brow, inscrutable. "You are an atheist, are you not?"

Jonathan opens his mouth and then closes it again, unwilling to take Dracula's bait as much as at a loss for words – the hatch-mark in his vision beyond distracting – before things finally click into place. "It's a cross."

"A rosary, in fact," says Dracula. "I had Emil procure it before we left port. Just a bit of tourist tack, nothing more than plastic and tin. But to a vampire… Well. In the right hands, it could neutralize you. Best not look on it directly."

Jonathan watches with mingled fascination and dread as the Count reopens the box, his lethal grip rendered so careful—and again his vision burns, the beast in him churning with repulsion. Then, as Dracula bid him, he drops it into the edge of his sight, with the rest of his view settling elsewhere...

"That's it," Dracula says. "Good. Focus on me instead."

Jonathan snorts. "Still hurts like the dickens."

"You'll get used to it. Or else you'll find yourself cowering in terror whenever you walk past a church."

And not once in the weeks since the nightmare began has this particular thought so fully coagulated within him, or the reality taken root.

Not until now. But his mind straight away begins circling on the bland, Anglican imaginings of eternal suffering invoked by his grandmother—and too, all the midnight horror flicks he'd seen growing up, Barker and Rami, demons and devils and slathering hordes…

The monster sitting across from him.

The one he's become.

Jonathan meets Dracula's eye and asks, quite soberly, "Am I damned?"

"Yes," Dracula says. Then: "But chin up, Johnny: all the best people are."

Chapter Text

He hates him.

*

"Tell me, Johnny..." says Dracula, once more thumbing through the neat stack of glossy three by fives showcasing all the buildings and grounds, every room and amenity, at one Carfax Abbey, Purfleet. "Did you take these yourself?"

Jonathan looks up from the document he's been reviewing. The photo Dracula's holding forth shows a sprawling view of the estate's under-kept grounds, with a piece of moss-caked statuary positioned in the foreground—and a bird.

Rather artsy, if he's honest.

"Yeah," he says. "I don't think most clients really bother to look at them, but the council office requires a full set be included in the purchase agreement."

Dracula flips to another picture, this one of the ballroom, a space made to seem larger for the floor to ceiling mirrors dominating the walls, reflecting ad infinitum—and brighter for the sun shining through the clear, wide windows: so bright—

"I think they're marvelous," Dracula says, flipping again. "You studied photography, did you not? At university."

It takes Jonathan a moment to think back. "That's right," he says. Then: "Just a couple of classes, you know, nothing too serious. Never felt I'd much in the way of actual tal—"

"Nonsense," Dracula cuts him off. Leaning across the table, he taps a finger on the unrolled building floor plan. "I want you to pick somewhere to be your darkroom."

Jonathan smiles, grim. "My whole life is a dark room."

*

He hates the sight of him and the scent of him and the way he's always watching, waiting—

And he hates how none of that's a bit true.

*

"Tell me about Doctor Van Helsing," Jonathan says, later, over a game of chess and a glass of blood.

Dracula doesn't look up from the board. "What, exactly, would you like to know?"

"Why has it taken until now for you to confront her?"

"I had no need to before. I've let her live, uninterrupted." Dracula's knight takes Jonathan's pawn. Then: "But this time she has crossed a line I won't allow."

Jonathan moves his queen. "And what if she's right? What if she really does have the power to cure disease?" he presses, unflinching. "Who the hell are you to stop the world turning?"

Dracula arches a brow. "Funny you should ask."

Jonathan snorts and takes Dracula's knight, and then stares at the board, examining. In another two moves, he could actually have this thing in the bag. He says, "You're just bloody jealous that she was on Ellen last year, and you weren't."

*

He hates how he brings him to his knees—

Naked. Opening wide for his cock—first only the tip, then the rest of it over his tongue – the flavor salty and sanguine – before the Count moves his hips and Jonathan takes the whole length of him deep, down into his throat.

He may not need to breathe. But he still gags a little.

"Good boy," Dracula says, stroking his hair. "You can let go now."

So relieved, Jonathan does.

Chapter Text

Count Dracula has his tongue so far up Jonathan's arsehole that Jonathan's seeing stars—

Face planted into the mattress, arms braced, back bowed, rear raised—perfectly displayed, and making such sounds—far enough gone to the delirious, delicious, sickening pleasure of the act that he nearly doesn't notice the pain—how Dracula's grip on his hips is rough enough to bruise, nor the still-bleeding bites on his thighs—

But he does take note of the beep and the bang and the door to the shipping container he's been forced to call home this last miserable week unbolt… and then swing slowly open.

A face appears: lean, pale, and like a storm cloud settling, frightened beyond all measure.

Jonathan's too shocked to move, but Dracula is already halfway across the room, his preternatural speed taking him to the doorway just as the intruder stumbles through it. In another second, he has his hands fisted in the guy's shirtfront, twisting, and lifts him clear off the floor to snarl in his face. "How dare you disturb me when I am with my bride."

"Let me go," the guy sputters, struggling to get away. "Please! By God, let me go!"

The invocation sizzles, but Dracula holds on. Smiling; his eyes suddenly very red. "What are you doing here?"

"Please! I don't—"

"Tell me."

"Ah! There have been rumors… among the crew…"

"Go on."

A breathless pause, and then: "We've all had a guess at what's in locked in here. Drugs—money—treasure. Oh God, don't kill me—"

"Tell me your name."

"Piotr," the guy says, softly, confessional. "Please, I… I beg you."

The Count grins wider, bloody, all fangs. "I'm afraid you're going to have to do better than that."

Just then they're joined by another visitor—this time Emil, looking somewhat disheveled, his expression more perturbed than contrite. "My lord—"

"Where the hell were you?" Dracula demands.

Emil shrugs. "Taking a shit," he says, for his part checking his flies before he reaches into his belt for his gun. For one horrible moment, Jonathan thinks he'll shoot it—but then he turns it round and hits the grip against the guy's head, hard, knocking him out.

Dracula lets the body drop into Emil's arms. "Take care of this instead," he says, "and if you value your life, my servant, you will see that it doesn't happen twice."

Emil nods, his gaze flicking from the Count all the way back to Jonathan, naturally naked, kneeling on the bed. The man arches a brow. "Of course, my lord." Then, looking back to Dracula: "It won't."

Without further comment, he takes Piotr away, and Jonathan gets one last gulp of the night air – rich and salty, heavy and humid—he drinks it down like hot rum: warming – before the door once more with a hard clank closes tight.

They're alone.

"Now then," says Dracula, turning back to Jonathan. On his way rounding to the bed, he grabs a bottle and two glasses. "Where were we?"

Chapter Text

…should've tried, Jonathan thinks, to escape. Should've tried to escape. Should've got out. The door was open, right there. Could've found help. Tried anything, any fucking thing at all—could've slipped out when the Count was distracted—when Emil came in—when the door was open, and someone might've heard. I should've tried to escape—

"Johnny?"

A pause, then: "Hmm?"

"You're drifting."

Jonathan blinks. Oh. They're playing Mario Kart. It takes him a moment to focus on the television screen, but when he does, he sees he has indeed driven his kart off the map, getting it pinned in an outcrop of pixelated rocks. He also notices the game time: 17'45"33 and ticking.

Dracula must've won ages ago.

Dutifully, Jonathan works the controller to pivot his kart backward, then once more onto the track. He's careful. It takes effort not to crush the thing in his hands. But he does it; and when Dracula offers a rematch, he promises, "You are so going down this time."

*

There isn't an inch of Jonathan that Dracula hasn't touched—hasn't tried or tasted or bled—hasn't changed. Not an atom within him that Dracula hasn't claimed.

He notices it gradually, in small ways and big ones. The way his body responds to the Count's presence: attentive, reactive, drawn into action by some invisible thread. The buzzing in his head. The tug within his veins. The hunger.

How Dracula always knows what Jonathan's going to say before he does.

And the way he looks at him. The weight of his gaze, always.

*

"Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale," Jonathan sing-songs – ever a shaky tenor, singing ability apparently one of the few things becoming a vampire failed to enhance – hanging upside down from a ceiling panel. "The tale of a hellish trip, where I'm sure to go bloody mad aboard this fucking ship."

"Mm. That's not how I remember the tune going."

Jonathan glances down at at Dracula, sidelong. "Don't tell me you've seen Gilligan's Island."

Dracula shrugs. "Eternity drags."

It isn't the first time he's said this, but it's the first time it gives Jonathan pause. He lets his grip loosen and drops to the floor to stand before him. "You really are just a sad old man." It's meant to be biting, but it comes out soft. He doesn't pity him. How could he?

But as the Count lowers his paper enough to stare over it, consideringly, Jonathan feels himself squirm. He says, "Good job I've you to keep me company now, isn't it?"

*

"'...only wished to have a look at you and see if you were truly as great as tales say. I did not believe them,'" Dracula reads, low and rich, breath a cool puff against Jonathan's cheek. Then: "You're drifting."

"M'not," Jonathan protests into Dracula's pec, groggy. Nearly dawn. The ocean endless. They've been at sea for twelve days, but it feels like longer. "Don't stop yet. 'S just getting to the really good bit…"

Chapter Text

They advance to edged weapons training.

From out of the blood-hued firmament of Jonathan's mindscape, the Count manifests a startling array of swords, daggers, knives, and bayonets, plus a variety of hatchets, spears, and scythes besides.

"Take your pick," Dracula says, gesturing toward the lot with evident pride.

"Oh, well," Jonathan replies. "Before me sits a veritable smörgåsbord of murder. However shall I choose?"

Dracula grins, sharp as any of the implements displayed behind him. "Try going with whichever speaks to you the most."

Jonathan makes a show of rolling his eyes, but ends with sights on one of the shorter swords—really more of a long knife, with a black leather grip and a pronounced bend in the blade, and a particularly lethal-looking edge.

"This..." He walks to it, lifting it off the rack and into his hand, getting a feel for its weight and balance—and to his shock, the gleaming sight of his own reflection in the polished steel. He glances at Dracula. "What is this?"

"A kukri, from India," Dracula says. "Excellent choice, Johnny."

Jonathan swipes it at him, unbidden. "Are you so sure about that?"

But before the knife can meet its intended target, he disappears. The Count hovers as a cloud of red mist for a moment, just out of reach, then rematerializes as himself at the opposite end of the sparring platform. He reaches for a meaty, ax-headed spear, and in a single, swinging arc, launches it backward.

"Shit!" Jonathan evades the attack, but barely, twisting sideways as the thing flies by, only to land solidly on the ground. He spends a long breath staring upward at the ever churning sky, wondering about any number of bad decisions he's made in his life.

Then Dracula appears above him, offering a hand. "Again."

*

Jonathan dreams he's walking down a hallway lined with locked doors—and at the end of it…

The one that opens.

His grandfather's study. His safe place.

It's golden hour, as it always is, with the late summer light streaming through the window at the perfect angle to illuminate the dust motes. The kid is sat on one side of the desk, and Count Dracula is sat on the other, and in between them looms a teetering pile of plastic dinosaurs and action figures.

"This one's Tommy," the kid explains, holding a figure up for Dracula to see. His favorite. "He's an adventurer."

"Yes, I do love a good adventure," Dracula agrees, through by now his gaze has shifted up to Jonathan, still standing in the doorway. He smiles. "Hello, Johnny. Welcome."

Jonathan swallows. "This is wrong," he says, certain of it. "You shouldn't be here."

"And yet here I am. By invitation, no less." The Count motions, beckoning. "Come: young Master Harker was just showing me his toys."

The kid looks over his shoulder, grinning. "We're gonna have a war! Wanna play?"

"No," says Jonathan, though he enters the study just the same. "No."

And there's a chair already waiting.

Chapter Text

"I have a job for you, Johnny."

"What is it?"

"Come."

Lined up on the table there's and a bowl and a brush and a canister of foaming soap and a couple of plush-looking flannels embroidered with an ostentatious letter D—along with the sharpest straight razor Jonathan's ever seen—

Ready and waiting. Alarmed, he looks up. "What is this?"

The Count looks back at him, wry. "I've decided it's time I went with a new look." He rubs a hand over his chin, scratching at his raven black beard, considering. "Something befitting the new century."

"A little less Ivan the Terrible, a little more Tom Cruise?"

Dracula chuckles. "If you like."

Jonathan's gaze flicks back to the razor. "I'll see what I can do."

*

He's never, before.

Not spread lather over another man's jaw nor taken a gleaming blade to his throat.

Or watched a face such as this one be slowly, fully revealed, one stroke at a time, working with sure, steady resolve… It would only take the barest swipe of Jonathan's wrist to drive the thing across that long, pale neck, spilling his essence, killing him instantly.

He wonders if that would happen.

He wonders if he could.

*

The CD player is spinning Debussy.

Jonathan hasn't heard this recording before; he has a feeling he'll be getting to know it a lot better. He notes the way Dracula's fingers tap out the rhythm on his knee, absentminded—and the way his eyes have drifted shut… the absolute wanker.

Jonathan's simmering by the time he's finished, despairing and angry, and promising himself beyond hope he'll have another chance like this, knife or no—all without having made a mistake, or shed a single drop of blood. No. He's done it, and well.

Count Dracula looks like a new man.

He sets the razor down and reaches for a fresh towel when Dracula's hand settles on his forearm, stopping him.

"Well done, darling," Dracula says, then taps one clawed finger against his temple. "D'you mind if I… have a peek?"

It takes a moment for Jonathan to understand what Dracula's asking. He swallows. "Oh. Sure."

Dracula smiles. It's going to take some getting used to, seeing him like this—being asked this. Then he feels a tingling in his head, and the shiver of his maker's presence shuffling through his most immediate thoughts, his sound and vision, and for a single, excruciating moment, Dracula gazes on himself through Jonathan's eyes. Then he retreats.

He takes the flannel from Jonathan's hand and uses it himself, then tosses it away. "Well done, indeed."

Jonathan steps backward as the Count stands, but the wall is behind him. There's nowhere to go. In an instant, Jonathan's in Dracula's arms, being pulled into a hard, claiming kiss, the cold smoothness of his skin a novel development—

Oh, hell. Who's he kidding? He kisses back, enjoying himself, getting close.

And too: basking in the compliment, just a bit.

Jonathan always did like pleasing the boss.

Chapter Text

"What's going on?" Jonathan asks, wary, risen from his coffin but still hanging back in the loft. Dracula's nowhere to be seen—but he isn't alone. Stood beside the door hatch, dressed in his typical fatigues, arms crossing his substantial chest, is Emil.

Jonathan glares at him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Startling to realize these are the first words he's spoken to anyone but the Count in months, though worse that they're directed at someone he probably trusts even less.

For his part, Emil looks unperturbed. "Good evening, Herr Harker," he says. His voice is elegantly accented, melodic to Jonathan's ears, and not for the first time, Jonathan wonders what his part is in all this. "His lordship has bid me to escort you outside."

"Outside?" Jonathan echoes. "As in—outside outside?"

Emil's expression twists, amused. "That's right. He has something special planned for the evening, I gather."

"Why?"

"It is not mine to know his lordship's purpose. But I suggest you do as I say without further delay. He awaits you."

Jonathan has half a mind to refuse him, just out of spite, but it would mean giving up the only chance he's had at breathing the free air in so long…

No. He'll do almost anything to get out of this bloody box. Without further complaint, he meets Emil below, and when the man gestures to a suit bag hanging by the door, he takes it.

*

"It's good on you," Emil says, looking him up and down. "He'll be pleased."

Jonathan sniffs, tugging a jacket cuff. But he has to admit the tuxedo is a fine fit. Beautiful, black wool lined with scarlet silk, and pearl buttons going down the white shirt, all of it bespoke to his newly muscular frame—though he doesn't fancy dwelling on the fact of the Count knowing his exact measurements.

Finally he looks up. "Why do you serve him?"

"The money," Emil says, simply. And then, smiling, "We are perhaps not so different, you and I. Only I did not let him fuck me." He shrugs. "He still fucked me over in the end. Do you know, at the Chișinău Circus, I was called Bersicker. The Man Wolf."

Jonathan stares back at him, recalling that huge, black dog curled familiar at Dracula's feet in the castle parlor. "You mean you become…"

"Yes. At the full moon, and when it suits him. It's not a bad life." Emil's smile turns wry. "And so this is not the first time I have taken you to him, Herr Harker, only I looked a bit different then. Please, if you would follow me."

Emil turns to the wall panel and taps rapidly on the keypad, and a couple of moments later there's a click and a clank—and the door slides open.

Jonathan could weep at the first, glorious lungfuls of cool, salty air, the sensation of it filling his nose and mouth is so vivid. But there's no time.

Dracula is waiting.

Chapter Text

It's a nice night.

The stars are shining; the wind is calm. And there's a table set for two on the deck of Demeter, all pleated cloth and fine china—and a cut glass terrine full of something unmistakably sanguine.

And him too: Dracula.

The Count stands as Emil and then Jonathan emerge from the narrow corridor between the stacked rows of shipping containers, his gaze flicking from one to the other… and then lingering. Jonathan feels inspected, aware that something within him has snapped to and taken note, thrilling at the emergence of Dracula's smile.

"Exquisite," he says, approvingly, motioning for Jonathan to join him. "Emil, you have your orders."

"Yes, my lord."

Jonathan hears the henchman's footsteps but doesn't turn to watch him go; his attention is too focused on the way Dracula's now had a proper haircut as well as a shave, and in his solid black tuxedo he looks stepped straight from some red carpet, gloating, elegant and fit…

"Well?" he asks, when Jonathan is closer. "What do you think?"

Jonathan looks back at him, weighing his words. But smelling the salt air and sensing the sea all around, any flex of spitefulness dies on his lips. The only thing that matters is that he's out of his prison, even as he means it when he says, "I think it's wonderful."

And then belatedly, he becomes aware of something… or a distinctive lack. "Where is everyone? It's so quiet—tell me you haven't—"

"Oh, Johnny. You needn't worry," Dracula says. "I've simply sent them all to bed."

"Then who the hell's steering the ship?"

Dracula shakes his head, rueful. "The computer," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Then: "Come here."

When Jonathan does, Dracula takes his face in his hand, tilting it upward and kissing him deeply, tongue plunging into Jonathan's mouth, staking claim. It's enough to make Jonathan's toes curl—

But in truth, he's hungrier for something else. He bites vaguely down, fangs grazing Dracula's tongue just enough to draw blood.

The Count laughs and pulls away, saying, "Now, now. No spoiling your dinner."

He leads Jonathan to his seat; and then he takes his own. And he serves them both, a ladle-full each and then some doled into the wide-rimmed bowls. A fright. A sheer fucking horror, the ruby riotous against the bone; an insult to taste.

And in a single whiff, absolutely enough to set Jonathan's mouth watering.

With deliberate care, all his senses honing in, he drapes his napkin over his lap. Then he picks up the waiting soup spoon, and very carefully, he dips it into the blood.

But just before he gets it back to his lips, Dracula says, "It's human, you know."

Jonathan stops cold. "What?" He sets the spoon back down abruptly enough to splash it. He gapes down at his waistcoat, now dotted with crimson specks. His hands too.

The scent is incredible.

"You absolute bastard."

Dracula grins. "Go on then."

Chapter Text

"Come. You know how special you are to me. Do you really think I'd let you cut your fangs on anything but the real thing?" Dracula says, voice gentle, as if he'd in fact done Jonathan a kindness in lying to him all these weeks. And then: "Besides, it's been legally sourced, if not ethically..." He glances between Jonathan and the steaming bowls of blood on the table before them, his smile turning decidedly wicked. "Well. In the main."

Jonathan shakes his head, having heard quite enough—before the message catches up to him. He asks, slowly, "What do you mean? Have you… have you murdered someone?"

The Count lets out a short bark of a laugh, delighted. "Right to the point, aren't you," he says. "No, no. I haven't murdered anyone... but Emil did terminate one of the crew member's contracts a few days early, at my behest, so that we might dine in rather more style this evening."

Jonathan's mouth goes dry. "Who?"

"D'you remember that boy? The one who broke into our box?"

"No…"

"My dear, he's already—"

"No!" Jonathan shouts. "It isn't right. No one should have to die so we can live. You can't make me do that—not to a goddamned person—" he lets out a breath, the oath sizzling his tongue.

But Dracula just sighs. "Johnny… Don't you understand what you are? You belong to me now," he says, tilting his head, "and I can make you do whatever the fuck I want." Then, softer: "But so long as everything goes according to plan, I'll never ask you to wield anything more lethal than a fountain pen. You're my lawyer, after all. I'm sure we'll discover plenty of novel ways to occupy your time.

"Now: let's eat."

With that, and with utmost pleasure, he does.

"You're a monster," Jonathan whispers.

"Mm. You really shouldn't wait, you know: it gets cold so quickly."

Jonathan feels his fangs ache; his stomach clench too, longingly. And after a tantalizing moment more, in the name of hell, he follows suit.

And damned if the taste isn't better than any half-remembered artifact of Jonathan's once most beloved foods, rolled into one. Every last drink, every next cigarette: satisfaction at last. Fresh, human blood, silky and warm, the beast in him howling, Finally—!

Jonathan looks up, shocked. "I can see him."

Dracula nods. "Yes," he says, "that's good, tell me what you see."

"Everything," Jonathan huffs. He closes his eyes now, but it doesn't stop the memories free falling through his mind, and in the time it takes for Piotr's blood to settle into his guts, two spoonfuls then three, Jonathan witnesses all ever he was—knows every moment of his days.

And it's… wondrous. And horrible. And nothing if not life.

He says, a little breathless, awestruck despite the obvious: "Woah."

In the moonlight, Jonathan can see how the browns of Dracula's eyes are ringed beautifully in scarlet. He smiles, and there's red there too. "Isn't it just?"

Chapter Text

Jonathan drinks the blood down to the last drop—

Or almost. He briefly considers licking the bowl; but watching Dracula watch him, he decides to err on the side of modesty, instead stroking the tip of his index finger back and forth across the concave surface to collect what's left, and then shoves his finger into his mouth to suck it clean—glorious.

He hears the Count laugh. "No, don't mind me. You have every right to enjoy yourself," he commends. "It's hard to say when we'll have it this fresh again."

"I'm sure I'll never be a connoisseur, so you can spare me."

"Hmm. If you ever taste real pig's blood, you'll see I already have."

Jonathan glares at him. At least the linens are black. Sullenly, he wipes his mouth, then his hands, before pushing slightly from the table. Every movement takes finesse. He feels heightened—sensual and somewhat strung out, and just about strong enough to fly to the moon and back—but for the open water.

By some weird power, he's restrained by it, and bound to the ship. For a long moment, he gazes out into the night, and the vast, calm surface of the sea. The stars look very bright. And Dracula is smiling.

"What now?" Jonathan wants to know.

"I have something for you."

But when Dracula reaches into his jacket for a small, velvet box, Jonathan flinches back, remembering the crucifix. He says, "There's no way I'm touching—"

"Oh, that," Dracula chides. "Don't worry. This one's a gift."

"A gift?" Jonathan echoes. "Even worse."

Dracula's smile turns down a bit at the corners—but only just. "It's not," he says, simply. Then he extends the box again, and waits for Jonathan to take it.

The velvet is smooth in Jonathan's hand, and he thinks he might for a while be happy staring at the soft, glittering black pile… if it weren't for the little voice within urging him to open it.

He does. And there, tucked in a bed of silk, is a dragon signet ring a lot like Dracula's own.

"What is this?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"You're… proposing to me?"

This at least returns a bit more humor into the Count's expression. "We're well beyond the engagement stage, don't you think? But if you'll allow me," he says, reclaiming the box, and in a single, smooth movement, bends a knee by Jonathan's feet. Then he holds up the ring. "Jonathan Harker… I want you to be mine." And taking Jonathan's hand in his, he puts it on him.

The gold is as cold as Dracula's touch; as cold as Jonathan's too, which means it hardly feels like anything at all. And yet a big enough wave of emotion crests and crashes within him that thinks he might be sick.

"In return for your loyalty, I swear to protect you." Dracula is closer by now. And when he says, "Well? What d'you say?"

There's no answer for Jonathan but one: "I do."

Chapter Text

Looking every bit like the cat who got the cream, Dracula says, "Good boy."

And when he reaches out, Jonathan goes to him, taken into his arms in stride, welcoming the weight of his body and the way, when they kiss, Dracula dives right in, claiming what's his, denying all quarter.

Fortunately, Jonathan no longer needs to breathe.

He kisses back eagerly, pressing nearer, body half-drunk on blood, loaded as a live wire. Hell, he can almost hear the swell of an orchestral score from above the slap of the waves on the ship's sides, a melody now rising about them; and then he realizes he really can hear music, in some facsimile of stereo, straight from the depths of his own mind—from Dracula's—Debussy—and it occurs to him that from now on, he'll never be alone in his head again.

Jonathan feels Dracula smile at that, right against his skin, and rumble, chucking: "You really are a quick study. Now..." He pulls back enough to look at him, his gaze violently red, well pleased. "I'd like you to do something else."

"Anything," Jonathan says, meaning it.

"Call me Vlad."

*

"Vlad," Jonathan repeats, inflecting the name with a soft B, as his lordship has. It sounds natural. Again, slowly, as if tasting it: "Vlad."

Good, Vlad says, and this too is a call sent Direct. Jonathan tingles with a frisson of excitement, the compliment going deep—and then he's swept off his feet.

"Oh!" Jonathan gasps, and clings tighter to Vlad's middle. Within seconds they've already ascended meters from the deck, through the clear night, up and up until DEMETER II is only a dot of light on the flat surface of the black sea and the cold air slaps Jonathan's face so ferociously that, out of instinct, he buries himself against Vlad's chest.

It's a while before they stop. But when they do, Vlad's voice again appears in Jonathan's mind: Look out beyond the horizon.

Reluctantly, Jonathan does, turning sideways to see where the darkness is bisected by a glow bright enough that he's tempted to look back away.

What is it? he wonders.

Why Johnny, Vlad returns, don't you recognize her?

And at last Jonathan gets it. He says, aloud, though the wind is biting, "Home."

A place departed with nary a wayward glance, shuffled out from his own warm bed and off to Heathrow, at the time mourned only in passing. Jonathan knows there are people he once loved here; but he doesn't quite remember who. Home. There's a picture of Tolkien's own Minas Tirith on his living room wall. Home. At Carfax, the afternoon light streams through the southern windows just so—

Home. England at last. And now, not just Jonathan's own.

"It's beautiful," he says, overwhelmed, feeling at once that he might cry. But then it passes.

Dracula says, "It is indeed. We make port tomorrow evening. And believe you me, darling," he says, "we're about to take the place by bloody storm."

Chapter Text

Back in the box, Vlad unwraps Jonathan like a gift.

He'd flown them down to the ship's deck so quickly that to Jonathan they seemed to vanish midair and remateralize precisely, where Vlad lifted him in his arms and carried him over the threshold and, pausing only to lock the door securely behind them, took him to bed.

Teeth – blunt, still human-seeming – against Jonathan's throat, Vlad says, "Lose the shoes." And no sooner than Jonathan has done so are Vlad's clever, claw-tipped fingers undoing his tie.

Then his buttons.

All the way down his shirt so that Vlad may at last pull it apart, revealing Jonathan's bare chest—the scant hair here gone as white as everywhere else, the skin as pale as the crisp cotton bracketing it—before making quick work of his flies.

"Johnny, Johnny…" Vlad murmurs. "Did I not leave you undergarments to wear this evening?"

"Yeah," Jonathan agrees. The pants in question had in fact appeared quite stylish, and he'd enjoyed the taunt of leaving them in the bag. Now, as his already hard cock springs free of confinement, it seems more like a happy accident. He smiles, showing his fangs. "You did."

Vlad's grin has gone sharper too. He swoops in to kiss Jonathan properly, hungrily, crowding him towards the bed so that first the backs of Jonathan's legs are neatly pinned to the mattress—and then he must simply tumble backward onto it.

Like some great beast prowling, Vlad follows after him, setting his hands on Jonathan's waist and sliding him farther back. Then he looms in to kiss Jonathan again, before mouthing his way down Jonathan's front, breastbone to belly, taking special care to lick round the rim of Jonathan's navel.

"Oh my g-ah!" Jonathan sputters, squirming. And then: "Oh fuck!" He hesitates before stationing his own hands on Vlad's shoulders; but Vlad pushes back into the contact invitingly before shifting lower. Kissing. Nibbling. Biting, but not quite breaking the skin.

"Tell me what you want," Vlad commands. He presses his lips to the tender intersection of Jonathan's groin, and Jonathan can feel the puff of his breath—out in, out in, instinctual or affectation—and knows there's no reason to keep him waiting.

Not when the answer is clear. He says, simply, "I want you to have me."

"My Johnny," says Vlad, "I hoped you would."

Then he steadies his grip on Jonathan's hips and wolfs the full length of him down his throat.

The sensation is shocking, intensity blooming, with only Vlad's weight keeping Jonathan from arching his body off the bed—but so too, the source of his torment: Vlad's own mouth and teeth and tongue, wonderfully wet and—oh.

Amazed, Jonathan gasps, realizing what he's been missing, "Vlad—You're… warm."

Vlad doesn't pull off him to answer, replying directly as a thought: Fresh blood.

"Holy mackerel," Jonathan obliges, albeit nearly a whimper, while Vlad sets in to really take his time…

If only Jonathan took any time at all.

Chapter Text

Come.

It's an order. Vlad's will manifests first as a tingle at the base of Jonathan's skull, then an ache in the pit of his stomach—growing as Vlad deepthroats him, mouth so beautifully slick and tight around his cock—as Vlad grazes him with his teeth—as Vlad's attention coils all around, and Vlad's voice echoes from within Jonathan's own mind, Come for me, Johnny. Come—!

Jonathan does.

"Oh fuck," he hitches, breathless, hips bucking hard as he spills down Vlad's throat. A normal person would probably have their jaw dislocated by such a maneuver; but Vlad just takes it, swallowing around him, even chuckling a little when he finally pulls back.

"Mm, I trust that took the edge off," he says, wiping his red lips with his thumb and forefinger almost daintily—though there isn't a drop of spit nor Jonathan's spend left there to clean. He grins, wolfish, and in a flash of preternatural movement opens his collar, revealing the long column of his throat. "Now… how about a drink?"

Jonathan nods drowsily, well-mussed, still coming down, as Vlad retrieves a bottle from the bedside table. But rather than pour into the waiting goblets, he sets his mouth directly around the curved green glass and takes a mighty swig. Then, to Jonathan's astonishment, he leans up for a kiss—and delivers a mouthful.

It's objectively… disgusting. Jonathan coughs, undecided whether to choke or glug it down. But then it hits. A switch in him seems to trigger, and unthinkingly he licks into Vlad's mouth, greedy for more, in the moment an act so singularly erotic he might melt into his maker's grasp.

Vlad kisses him back, stroking his face, enjoying it too.

And the blood? Very fresh. If anything, Jonathan's body responds to it even quicker than last time, filling up, gaining strength, so that Piotr's memories—when they appear; and they do—are easier to quell.

Besides, Jonathan has plenty of other things to think about, like Vlad divesting him of his trousers and snaking a hand between their bodies to dip a pair of fingers into his mouth, getting them wet.

He's so near now, crowding Jonathan on all sides. "Tell me how you feel."

"I feel… Oh fuck, Vlad," Jonathan hisses when Vlad's fingers begin working into him. He can hardly think. He feels ravenous in a way he's still unused to. "Please—"

"Tell me."

"Good," Jonathan whimpers as Vlad's fingers nimbly twist inside him. "I feel so fucking good."

Vlad smiles, all teeth. "Good."

Another kiss; more blood.

When Vlad replaces his fingers with his cock, he's still dressed, and Jonathan can feel the bite of his zip and buttons against his sensitive skin with every thrust. It's like he's being skewered, neatly bent in half with Vlad gripping him behind the knees, nearly delirious with pleasure—but he can take more.

He bares his neck, inviting. "Please… I want you to—bite me—taste me."

Vlad doesn't need to be asked twice.

Chapter Text

Vlad sinks his fangs deep into the meat of Jonathan's throat, and it's utterly, excruciatingly—perfect. But before he can ride the resulting wave of pleasure and pain into his next mind-blowing orgasm, his whole world goes black. "What the hell? Vlad—"

"It's all right, Johnny. Just open your eyes."

Jonathan does—and then immediately regrets it, flinching at the wash of bright, flickering light. He's suddenly found himself in a great hall lit up with too many candles to count, and made brighter still for all the gleaming surfaces. The gilt and marble and glass. And the mirrors, many of them floor-to-ceiling, reflecting and amplifying the scene into infinity…

Pity he doesn't cast a reflection in a single one.

Neither does Vlad, though the absolute pomp of the other vampire's outfit demands enough attention. Velvet and lace by the bolt, brocade and silk, embroidery and studs in gold and jewels. A hat trimmed in fur and boots up to his knees and a belt hung with knives.

All of it's a dead match for what he's wearing in the massive, severe-looking portrait hung on the room's far wall—what Jonathan realizes he's in fact got on too—

And they're dancing.

"I don't know how," he tells Vlad, quite certain of it.

"Sure you do," Vlad returns. "Just follow my lead."

There's a band in the corner playing instruments Jonathan can't name; the air is strangely scented, heavy with spice; and more: they aren't alone. A few others at first, spectral, with faces masked or obscured; and then more.

"Who are they?" Jonathan wants to know. "And why are they looking at us like that?"

Vlad says, simply, "They're curious. And as for who they are… My brides."

"Brides—but they're—"

Women. Men. Charred husks scarcely identifiable as having ever been human, and ghouls with half-gone faces. Some dressed as elegantly as Vlad and Jonathan, some shrouded in filth. Some naked. All of them keeping the three-quarter time, circling here on the floor of Vlad's mind palace. Watching.

Jonathan says, "There are so many."

Vlad smiles. "Yes, well—I've had a long life. And now you, Johnny. My finest at last."

*

When Jonathan opens his eyes again, they're back in bed, and Vlad's taking him from behind.

Their clothes are gone. The blood is poured. And Vlad has Jonathan in his arms, one arm braced around his middle and the other low, his hand gripped on Jonathan's cock, stroking him beautifully. It's not long before Jonathan's shuddering in relief. "Vlad, that's—that's so good—"

Vlad pulls his teeth out long enough to say, "Good boy."

*

After, Vlad holds Jonathan close. It's nice to nuzzle into his chest, hair tickling his nose, his skin still hinting at warmth. He wonders how long it'll take for the effect to wear off completely—and also whether there might be a bit more in the bottle.

Vlad hums, "As much as you want. But for now: rest. It's going to be a long night..."

Chapter Text

Jonathan wakes up slowly. Sluggish. Blurry round his edges, heightened senses for once less concerned by the departing sun and the vastness of the sea than the easy way Vlad's arms circle him, just so…

Enjoying the quiet. The stillness of his body. They'd slept all day in the bed, and from here he can take in the entirety of the horrid little room, his vampire eyes gradually but with great precision picking out details from the gloom. The books on the shelf. The glimmer of the arcade machine. The curve of the leather armchair. The ticking hands of the clock.

The way the carpet has worn down in places where he paced it.

The ring on his finger. The blood on the sheets—

Still damp. Something in him perks up at this particular revelation, his fangs tingling hungrily, his nostrils flaring to take in the gorgeous scent… until he abruptly remembers getting caught cheating on his maths exam when he was nine.

What?

But there isn't time to process the thought. He's on to remembering the rush of sneaking into an adult cinema when he was twelve. Then it's crashing his motorbike when he was seventeen.

Meeting the love of his life when he was twenty.

Getting his first real job when he was twenty one, as a crewman aboard DEMETER II.

Getting killed, the same—

No. Not Jonathan's memories. But Piotr's.

Before he can think twice, he's tearing up; and before long, he's closer to bawling. Wet, piteous sobs rattle his chest, heaving through him, the tears tinting his vision. "Oh fuck," he gasps. "Oh holy fuck. Vlad—he was so fucking young, and you—and we—" he pivots, twisting awkwardly in his maker's hold to better see him. "Vlad?"

Vlad doesn't respond right away. His eyes are open, intensely staring, and his red lips are pulled back over his teeth in a gleaming scowl. He looks somehow plush. Ruddy.

Not that he's really looking at Jonathan—or anything at all.

Jonathan chokes out a sob, feeling suddenly terrified. "Vlad?" Nothing. Is he—can Vlad die? Again: "Vlad, wake up." And then, by now fairly pleading: "Count Dracula—!"

Like a switch has gone off, Vlad comes back to himself.

Now he does shift his gaze directly onto Jonathan, and it's like being caught in a too-bright light: captivated. "Hello, Johnny," he says, sultry, sliding forward. Then he pauses to glance Jonathan over. "You've been crying."

"You—I thought you were dead."

"Undead. Now: what's this about?"

Jonathan moans, "Piotr had a girlfriend. And she—she's pregnant."

Vlad actually has the gall to roll his eyes. "She's also about to become about three million pounds richer," he says. "Look, Johnny: like it or not, that young man was under contract. He knew what was at stake breaking it. Now I want you to do something, darling, won't you? Good. First, take everything that remains of young Piotr in your mind—and lock it away…

"Yes…

"There.

"Just like that."

Chapter Text

There's a click.

Jonathan senses the door – one of the many lining the hallway of his mind palace – close, and then invisibly and irrevocably lock tight. He shivers. But the relief is immediate, the vivid echoes of Piotr's memories vanishing from his thoughts one moment, and the next not even the dead young man's name readily remains.

Jonathan meets Vlad's eye. "Is it always like that?"

Vlad tilts his head. "The lives?"

"Yeah."

"When the blood is fresh—yes. And the fresher the blood, the greater the power. It can be quite… captivating. But the effect is largely telepathic, and diminishes over time. Any murmurings have all but worn off in the stuff you're used to."

"But you said it's legal," says Jonathan. "How?"

"Everything comes at a price—and while I assure you it's not cheap, Emil has primarily sourced it from prison inmates." Vlad waits, letting this sink in. "Come, Johnny. Don't tell me you didn't have fun last night."

"Last night? Last night you got me high and flew me through the air and fucked my brains out for about ten hours straight—and let's not forget the fucking Annie Lennox music video you dragged me through," Jonathan snips. He remembers dancing, and drinking, and Vlad kissing him—too hard.

At last, begrudging, he says: "Last night was the most incredible night of my life."

Vlad smiles. "You were terrific."

And then: "If it really means so much to you, you're free to stick with the pasteurized version, just so long as you're keeping yourself sustained… Although I'll have you know that the ability to read your victims' minds via their blood has its definite perks," he says, enticingly. "Knowledge. Skills. Experience. Why, I once commanded a ship all by myself after feeding from the captain—I've learned dozens of languages—and with some planning, your loved ones might never be far away. My dear, remind me to play Sonata no. 12 for you sometime, just as Wolfgang once played it for me. Of course, we're having a baby grand delivered to Carfax…"

And amid Vlad's comfortable chatter, his hand carding idly through Jonathan's hair—grown longer now than it's been in his adult life; and stroking his face; and pressing his lips to his cheek, tasting where his tears have already begun to dry—

Jonathan is once more on the verge. Out of everything, he's only been able to focus on this: "Victims."

Vlad stops. "What?"

"Victims. Vampires make victims. There's no way around it. Existence is suffering."

"Wrong: our existence is beyond suffering," Vlad tells him, growing intense once more. "Do as I say, Johnny. Drink what you will, but fulfill your duties to me and I can personally vouch that you'll experience greater highs than you could have possibly dreamt of in your mortal life. Last night need only be the beginning…"

Reaching round Jonathan's back, Vlad twists, then dislodges the thick black silicone plug from his arse.

"Now: where did we leave off?"

Chapter Text

They pack the bags together.

But it takes a while. For one thing, Vlad can't seem to keep his hands off of Jonathan now that he's finally been granted full reign of him, his hands questing around Jonathan's belt and then up beneath his t-shirt, touching him, even as Jonathan works at arranging his many files into even more folios.

"Vlad." As frustrated as he is aroused, he sets the paperwork down—and then lets himself lean backward, into Vlad's arms, and rest his head on Vlad's shoulder. "We talked about this."

"Yes, Johnny? Have something else for me to sign?"

"No. But this is the next round of building permits you ordered for the new property in Picadilly. They're important. If any one of them gets out of order—or lost—or, I dunno, bloody—"

"Fuck the permits. I want you again. Now. Right on this desk."

"We haven't much time," Jonathan says. And then: "Vlad, please…"

"Oh, all right." Vlad lets Jonathan go, but not before kissing his neck—then nipping it. "You know you've triple checked everything already anyway. It's all perfect. Just like you…"

*

All the Things Jonathan Can No Longer Have Now He's Undead (Continued)

13785. A normal life.

13786. A normal life.

13787. A normal life.

13788. A normal life.

13789. A normal life.

13790. A normal life.

13791. A normal life.

13792. A normal life.

13783. A normal life.

13784. A life.

*

In bed again, later, Vlad threads his fingers through Jonathan's and asks, "How do you feel?"

Jonathan smiles, lazy. "Good."

"And how do you feel—to be going home?"

This at least gives Jonathan pause. "I'm not sure it's totally sunk in, to be honest. Seems like a dream."

"No, Johnny: it's real. You'll finally get your wish to escape what you've so often and eloquently described as this shithole." Vlad kisses Jonathan's temple fondly. "Just think: tomorrow night, we'll be standing on English soil. Together."

Jonathan nods. But it does still seem hazy; a thing so often fantasized about that at some point he'd stopped believing it possible. And then: "I've been wondering…"

"Yes?"

"Why Whitby? Surely we could have found a more convenient place to make port. There's—this city. You might have heard of it. It's called, London—hey, ouch!"

"Mm. Watch your tongue, young one," Vlad cautions, though he's smiling. "Call me old fashioned, but seeing as this was the site of my failure a century ago, it seemed only fitting that it should also mark the entry of my greatest success."

"D'you think the last Demeter's down there somewhere? Just lost at the bottom of the sea?"

"Yes. Along with the entire remaining crew—you know, I had rather of a time of it, then, when I was last at sea."

"Time?"

"Yeah," Vlad says, and somehow his grin goes a bit sharper. "Killed everyone on board. Glad I had something to really distract me these last few weeks. Well done, Johnny."

Jonathan swallows. "Thanks?"

Chapter Text

It's a dark and stormy night.

DEMETER II makes her way down the shipping channel with sickening slowness, rocking all the while, and between the wailing of the wind and the heavy raindrops pounding the steel exterior of the box, Jonathan can hardly hear the Bowie CD Vlad's put on to occupy him—nor the raised heartbeats of the twenty-six remaining souls onboard.

He's still piqued. Pacing again. Asserting, quite sure of it, once they've stopped and the wait which follows has begun to stretch endlessly out: "There's something wrong."

"No. Everything's on schedule," Vlad replies, and flips the leaf of his paper: the news in Welsh. "Sit down, my dear."

Jonathan gapes at him. "But surely it's taking too long!" And then a thought occurs to him. "We're stuck in customs."

"We are not—"

"We are stuck in fucking customs, and it serves you fucking right, you old bastard."

Now Vlad does look up. "Are you quite finished?" he asks, brow arched.

Jonathan huffs. And then he drops into the opposite chair, tucking his legs on the seat with him, and curling his arms around his knees. He closes his eyes and rather glumly tries to center himself, as Vlad has showed him. Then: "Sorry."

"Johnny," says Vlad. "I want you to tell me something."

"What is it?"

"What's the first thing you'd like to do, when we get ashore?"

Jonathan side-eyes him. "What, anything?"

"Try me."

"Take a bloody shower."

Vlad smiles. "Done."

And to his credit, it's only a little while longer before there's not a knock, but a scratch on the other side of the container door. Vlad keys the lock, and with a clank, it swings open.

The air is cool and brackish and rank with diesel fumes, the rain has slowed to a drizzle… And a huge black dog sits there, waiting.

Emil. Bersicker. Vlad reaches for the beast's head, scratching in a well-practiced way behind his pointed ears, before commending, "Fine work, my friend. Would it were I had a proper bone for you now, but your reward will come."

Bersicker barks at that, and Vlad turns back to Jonathan—amid the salt-lamp gleam, reflected off the deck and the pier, his dark eyes are shining. "Ready, darling? You remember: one foot after the other."

Jonathan holds his tongue and takes the hint.

*

There are more CCTV feeds than eyes to watch them at Whitby harbour that night; and no cameras manage to record the enormous dog make a vaulting lunge from the ship's deck to the pier, and land without a sound.

Nor do they catch the monster, his bride in his arms, fly softly over after.

*

The first step of English soil beneath Jonathan's feet is capped in a thick slab of concrete, but it still almost sends him to his knees. He feels overcome, tears flowing abruptly and without stopping.

"This is real," he tells himself. "I'm here."

"That's right, Johnny." Vlad takes his hand—and holds it. "We're home."

Chapter Text

As Vlad said: it's just one foot after the other. But it's still a lot.

The feeling of solid ground beneath Jonathan's feet is distracting. The glare of the lamps, reflected in every rain-slick surface, is distracting. The sounds of the pier are fucking distracting—

And Jonathan can't help but stop and admire the many layers of the summer breeze, mesmerized by scents both tantalizingly new and deeply known—so that a couple of times, as they make their way into town, Vlad has to stop and tug him forcibly along.

"What's the hurry?" Jonathan whines, tugging back. And then he whips his head round—suddenly smelling something else.

A bacon sandwich.

A cup of hot tea—with milk.

And a man, holding them.

With great interest, Jonathan watches the guy cross the pavement ahead. He can hear his heart.

"Steady, Johnny." Vlad presses his hand. They wait for the man to disappear into a shopfront, which a moment later flares from darkness to light. And then they're alone again. Vlad says: "Now come on."

"Where are we going, anyway?" Jonathan's never been to Whitby before, but everything about it screams home. Hell, to actually see street signs in English—

"The Royal Hotel." Vlad pulls on him again. "I've a room waiting for us."

*

There's also to wait to get in.

"What the hell do you mean invited?" Jonathan wants to know. But Vlad just shakes his head.

"I'll explain it later."

"No, you'll explain it now—"

"Good evening, gentlemen, how may I help you? Or should that be good morning…"

Jonathan turns to see a middle-aged woman in plum livery emerge from the hotel entrance—Brenda, her badge reads. Night Supervisor. And for the first time in a long while, he finds himself seen. How many times had he imagined such a scene? Of revealing himself or running away?

He won't. He can't. The moment passes.

The Night Supervisor glances between them, but apparently doesn't find anything odd. "Late check-in?"

"That's right," Vlad tells her, his accent a perfectly formulated copy of Jonathan's own. A step forward—but not yet inside. "Name of Balaur."

"Very good, sir." Brenda gets the door. "Please: this way. On behalf of the entire Royal Hotel team, please allow me to welcome you to Whitby. I do hope you have a pleasant stay."

Vlad and Jonathan follow her, and damn him if something Vlad said wasn't true: the act of passing over the threshold – of being actively invited, as if a physical barrier might exist between out and in, even when one so clearly doesn't – fills Jonathan with the unexpected but delicious sensation of getting away with something naughty, like sneaking an extra biscuit from the tin at Christmas.

His eyes flick up to confirm that Vlad's smiling too.

*

It's a nice suite, with big bed, a bigger bathroom, a bar, and a plush leather sofa in the shape of an L sat facing the window, overlooking the town—and beyond, the ruined abbey.

Chapter Text

It's a tight squeeze, but somehow they manage—Jonathan with his back to the tiles, and Vlad stood before him, half holding him up, half bracing him against the shower wall, so that Jonathan is both bent and pinned, filled up and painfully, exquisitely rent.

And for his part, Vlad takes his time.

In fact they've been fucking for long enough that the water's run cold; but neither of them pays any bother. For the moment, Vlad extracts his fangs from Jonathan's throat to say, his maw smeared red: "Well then, my dear… are the amenities up to your standard?"

Jonathan huffs, "'S'not far off."

The current sluices between them, pooling where their bodies are joined. The blood washes away. And Jonathan isn't sure when this, the very stuff of his life, became a substance as easily replenished as it's shed; expendable.

He isn't sure when he stopped being scared.

But as sure as Vlad takes a nail to himself – slicing – so that a dark trickle starts down his hairy chest, Jonathan's eager. Hungry. Groaning to taste his maker's blood, the flavor nearly too rich for his palette and yet wholly addictive, the effect of it intoxicating.

He doesn't really need to make a formal invitation. But he does anyway: Please! Come inside—

Yes. Bold as brass, Vlad's presence snakes into Jonathan's mind, weaving a familiar path through his topmost thoughts before claiming his place. Good boy.

Like a rat at the feeder, Jonathan positively shivers at that drop of sugar. And as Vlad's hand settles on the back of his head, stroking his hair while he drinks, he's astounded by the gift that follows: in an instant, he feels just how Vlad feels.

Triumphant.

Because he did it. He actually did it. He made it back to England at long last, all his abundant powers at hand, all according to plan, and now, according to plan: everything will fall into place…

Jonathan isn't sure where he ends and Vlad begins, but from the ruby-hued firmament, Count Dracula's vision rises—in all its horror.

Jonathan pulls back, coughing, breaking their psychic connection but needing to look Vlad in the eye.

"Oh," he says, simply. And then: "You've come here—not only to stop Agatha Van Helsing from saving the world."

Vlad's grin is terrible. He rocks his hips and impales Jonathan deeper, making him moan. "No?" he growls. "Why then have I come?"

"Because," says Jonathan, "you mean to take over the world—to conquer it for yourself—forever."

And he could come at any moment now; he's hanging by a thread… and Vlad holds the other end. The laugh that rises in the monster's chest is deep enough that Jonathan can feel it. Triumphant.

"That's right, Johnny," Vlad says, thrusting again, "but I think, perhaps… you've left out the best part."

Jonathan gulps, struggling to articulate the words.

But his lordship is persuasive. He says, knowing it to be true: "You mean for me to rule by your side."

Chapter Text

The next night, Jonathan rises slowly.

With the fluffy, white, Royal Hotel emblazoned duvet pulled all the way up over his head, he's kept in nearly perfect darkness, cozy beyond reckoning—comfortably working to suss out the last fragments of a dream he'd been having…

Until he hears the bedside lamp switch on.

"Mmph," says Jonathan. "Just five more minutes."

The bed dips as Vlad sits down beside him, pressing slightly into his side. "I've brought breakfast."

This at least piques Jonathan's interest. He peels back the covers to see Vlad proffering a full tumbler of blood—the scent of it hitting him immediately, both riotous and sweet. And the flavor sweet too.

Jonathan asks, "Another convict, I take it?"

But Vlad demures, amused, "Can't you tell?" He's already dressed – the black Armani tonight, with a bit of red silk peeking from the pocket, and a white-gold Rolex ticking away on his left wrist – slicked back and handsome. When he smiles, he shows his fangs.

Jonathan shivers. Then he drinks again, concentrating on the flavor of it this time; but any of the human donor's residual memories have faded. "No," he says. "It's like the life's gone from it."

Vlad shrugs and takes a sip from his own glass. "Damned delicious, though."

Well. Jonathan can't argue with that. When he finishes his first glass, he demands another.

Laughing, Vlad offers, "I'll leave the bottle."

It's only then that Jonathan notices the television remote sat on the table beside it, just out of reach. He side-eyes it a moment before making a grab, anticipating even so that Vlad might stop him—

But he presses the button and the screen flickers to life—like magic—and for his trouble he's greeted by the vapid, alien face of Tinky Winky.

Just the same: a sight for sore eyes.

He advances the channel. Antiques Roadshow. Press. Inspector Morse. Press. Conan the Barbarian. Press. The news. The trusty old evening news on BBC 1, giving the day's cricket scores.

The world hasn't stopped. He's merely been away—and now he's back.

He flips the channel back to Conan.

Vlad meanwhile crosses the room to stand by the bay window, staring, his body front-lit from the city glare in shades of gold and red. He says, "I want to visit the abbey before we leave town."

"What, the ruins?" From where he's seated at the headboard, Jonathan can't follow Vlad's gaze. But earlier, when they'd pulled a blanket over the window frame to create a blackout, he'd seen the place, stark in the predawn—and wondered. Yet he asks: "Why?"

"To pay my respects," says Vlad, simply. Now he does turn round. "We could take the car, but I'd prefer to remain inconspicuous. How would you feel about a little extracurricular?"

*

It's warm outside, and breezy, with a waxing moon that gleams silver off the water… almost too bright for Jonathan's sensitive bat eyes to take. But to soar, after being so long confined—

What bliss.

Chapter Text

“Blegh,” Jonathan complains, sticking his tongue out, “I’m pretty sure I swallowed a mosquito back there.”

It had actually been three, and in the moment he’d enjoyed the taste immensely, his pallid bat form winging behind Vlad’s darker one as they bypassed the shuttered tourist entrance to land directly among the abbey ruins. Even in substantial decay, the place is magnificent, with huge columns and crumbling masonry giving way to manicured lawns, each contrast striking in the moonlight.

Vlad arches a brow, amused. “Perhaps you could think of it as going native.”

Jonathan just stares at him. Their transformation back into themselves had left them stark naked, and the realization that Vlad might’ve dragged them here to have weird, ritualistic sex hits him suddenly—then on its heels, the realization that he might be a teensy bit into it—

When something behind Vlad’s shoulder catches his eye. The rotating head of a CCTV, mounted on a bracket near one of the far walls. He says, with interest, “I believe we’re about to become famous.”

Without missing a beat, Vlad glares at the offending object, reaching out… and then does something complicated with his fingers. The camera droops and switches off.

“What a world of wonders,” he says, smiling. And then: “Walk with me.”

*

“Well,” Jonathan hears himself say, later. “When you put it like that, the end of the world doesn’t sound half bad.”

*

There’s the chittering sound of sharp nails on smooth stone; the stink of something running scared, aware at once that it’s no longer alone. A shadow skirts across the path. And before Jonathan can think twice, he has the fat, black rat directly in his sights.

“Look at that thing,” he gasps.

“Oh yes,” Vlad agrees, understanding immediately.

“I couldn’t.” Jonathan swallows. But that doesn’t stop him salivating. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“Of course we’ve lately led charmed lives. Wasn’t so long ago it would have been impossible to travel at sea, as we have, without clearing the ship of rats…” Vlad trails off. Then: “You’re hungry, aren’t you, Johnny? We’ve been out here a while.”

And the beast in Jonathan already knows the answer. He’s bounding forward, dipping low, taking the distance far quicker than the frightened animal can scurry away, and in a moment, he has it.

“That’s it,” says Vlad. “Now—hold on. Two hands—yes…”

Jonathan hardly hears him. The rat is shrieking horribly, and just now it’s come very close to biting his hand, but Jonathan can feel the beautiful beat of its tiny heart. Hell, he can just about smell its blood. His fangs lengthen. He opens his mouth, wanting nothing more then to rip its tender pelt away and let the blood flow—and drink.

And then he stops cold in his tracks. Jonathan sets the creature free.

He doesn’t watch it run away. He doesn’t look at him, even after Vlad steps to him; even after the long pause, when he speaks. “Pity. That was a really big one.”

Chapter Text

One of the area's must-visit attractions, the Whitby 199 steps date back to the mid 14th century, offering unmatched views over the city, harbour, and sea, Jonathan reads from the shiny Historical Sites leaflet open in his hands.

He's collected a small library of the like since Vlad left him here, by the concierge, to pick up the Jaguar. Top Ten Whitby. North Yorkshire Mini Guide. Things to Do Along the Dinosaur Coast. North East England Holiday Book.

"Find something for the next time we're in town," Vlad had said, a wicked smile curling his lips. "And Johnny… don't you dare eat anyone while I'm gone."

It's another test. But damned if Jonathan isn't determined to get full marks.

Fortunately he and Vlad had fed – not to mention fucked – back in their room, after visiting the ruins. Jonathan got an actual shower. Fresh clothes. Bag sorted. The lot. So even parted from his maker, the mental tether between them growing stretched, he's feeling grounded, with plenty of interest in tours and sights and food and fun—all of it captured in the exquisite bright of day.

An abstract proposition to him. Unlike how he can feel each mortal milling about the lobby; hear them, even over the groan of the floor polisher working across the room. The machine seems to go and stop at random, and little wonder: the man pushing it must be in his eighties, balding, bespectacled with rheumy eyes and a pink complexion, his grizzled chin giving way to a sinewy throat...

Jonathan glances away, reaching for another leaflet, this time attracted by the picture of a steam train bisecting green countryside: Experience the North Yorkshire Moors Railway!

Just then, like some alien bird, the telephone starts to ring. And ring. And Jonathan spends a panicked moment wondering whether he oughtn't pick it up.

But the night manager's quicker, bending over the desk to offer a chipper, "Concierge, Brenda speaking…"

He watches her curiously as she takes the call, his keen ears naturally tuning in while his body goes so still that he nearly jumps in surprise when she hangs up the receiver and swings round to say, "Hello again, sir. All checked out?"

Jonathan looks back at her, at a loss for words. And then: "That's right."

"Excellent. I do hope you enjoyed your visit..." Brenda chatters on. But what starts as a smile, the very spirit of hospitality, before long grows a little more pained. Her heartbeat begins to speed up. And one way or another, she seems to finally see him. She falters. "Er, that is to say... It's your first time in Whitby?"

"Yes." Jonathan wonders what he must look like to her—whether she has any idea of what she's looking at. Whether she'd fear him, if she knew.

Frankly, he'd rather not find out. On instinct, he glances over the rims of his sunglasses to catch the manager's eye—and hold it, saying: "Actually… A cup tea would would be lovely."

Chapter Text

Simply: the first thing that occurs to Jonathan during a time of crisis.

But the night manager takes to the idea straight away, her expression relaxing even as she breaks eye contact to look over Jonathan's shoulder. "Mr. Swales! I say, Mr. Swales!"

Jonathan hears the floor polisher stutter to a halt, followed by a gruff voice wanting to know: "And what'll it be now?"

Brenda's gone back to smiling. "A cup of tea, if you would," she says. "For our guest."

"Aye, and if ye would, one for meself, and me break as well."

*

"They be nowt but air-blebs," says the old man, quite seriously. "They, an' all grims an' signs an' warnin's, be all invented by parsons an' illsome berk-bodies."

At first skeptical of the company, Jonathan warmed to Swales' presence once they started on the subject of local legends. He's since spent an enjoyable quarter hour nodding along, straining at the man's dialect, warming his hands round the porcelain – the Darjeeling itself untouched, despite all assurances that it's the best – until this too goes cold.

He sets it down on the table that separates them, then asks, "So you've never witnessed any of these phenomena?"

"Yabblins! There may be a poorish few what has." Swales reaches for his own cup, and frowns to find it empty. He puts it back; the fourth time he's done so.

Jonathan feels suddenly very sorry for him. Unbidden, he wonders, "How long have you worked here?"

"Oh," says Swales, rolling the syllable. And then: "Going on seventy years."

Jonathan swallows. "And are you… happy?"

Swales brightens. "Aye, me lad. Liverpool's just made the Cup."

*

It's a tingle at Jonathan's nape that draws him outside. He thanks Mr. Swales for the tea and retrieves the bags and meets Vlad on the kerb, where the other vampire is leaning against the parked car, arms crossed over his chest, waiting. "Hello, Johnny."

Vlad takes the bags and slides them into the boot. Then he opens the passenger door.

Jonathan gets inside.

The car feels comfortable; familiar; he reaches for the wallet of CDs by his feet, and is ready with one as Vlad slides into the driver's seat. Vlad looks at him. "All right, darling? You didn't mind me leaving you all alone back there?"

Jonathan lets out a breath. "I was fine," he says. And then: "I'm good."

"Mm. You certainly are," Vlad agrees, and leans in, taking Jonathan's face in his long hand, tilting it up, so that when he dips in for a kiss, Jonathan has nowhere to go.

Perish the thought. Jonathan kisses back with enthusiasm, moaning a little when Vlad licks into his mouth, rewarding him with a trickle of blood. It's a couple of long moments before they part, and Vlad sets one hand on the gear lever and the other on the wheel.

"Well then: lead the way."

At ease, Jonathan tells him, "We'll first want to turn round, then head toward Church Square on Crescent Avenue..."

Chapter Text

After a while, the way becomes familiar.

Jonathan's been here. Driven on the A1 southbound often enough – in his time before, he understands innately; before Vlad – that he can tell Vlad where to go. He anticipates all the turnings. The sharp rights and roundabouts. The landmarks familiar to him even in the absence of memory, so that in Vlad's capable hands they make it past Epping with time to spare—

Only to hit roadwork on the M25.

And endless. Bloody. Traffic.

"Oh my god," Jonathan groans, the words sizzling in his mouth. He hisses and slumps back in his seat, rubbing his temples. Amid the sea of flashing red lights bisecting the yellow-green urban glow; the sound of horns and sirens and cars start-stopping in trickling chorus; the city, growing... a sort of coagulation in his brain, sharp and painful.

So, angrily: "Can you believe this? It's the middle of the night!"

Vlad's tone is satisfied enough. "You don't like it?"

Jonathan glances sideways over his sunglasses. "Like it? We're crawling. I don't think we've gone a kilometer in the last half hour."

"Less," Vlad confirms.

"And can't we…" Jonathan makes an impatient gesture. "I don't know, do something?"

"Are you suggesting I use my dark power to lay waste to the London commuter belt?"

Jonathan blanches. "You wouldn't."

Now Vlad smiles. "You're right," he says. "I wouldn't. D'you know how long I've been waiting for this, Johnny? Relax. That's it... And yes, perhaps there's something we can do."

For a long moment, Jonathan doesn't answer. And then, miserably: "What?"

Vlad moves his hand from the gear lever, and to Jonathan's surprise, unfastens his trousers, revealing black silk boxers and an impressive erection. Jonathan glares back at him, though Vlad's eyes are already back on the road. With diamond precision, he inches the Jaguar forward a scant distance and then rolls it back to a stop.

"You're joking," Jonathan says, automatic.

Vlad's grin shows off his sharp teeth. "I wasn't the one who was complaining he was bored."

"I'm not bored. I have a fucking headache."

Unless… Even as the words are out of Jonathan's mouth, he finds himself again glancing curiously downward. It isn't just that he can make out the wetness round the tip of Vlad's cock, wicking through the thin fabric—but that he can smell him.

And so why shouldn't he taste him too?

Not giving himself time to hesitate, he sucks in a breath and leans over the center console, dipping halfway into Vlad's lap to drag the tip of his tongue across the silk. He says, a little less matter-of-factly than he'd prefer, "Speaking as your lawyer… This is idiotic, and we're going to fucking crash."

Vlad keeps one hand on the steering wheel, but the other migrates to Jonathan's head, his fingers nesting through Jonathan's hair. "Trust me," he says. "We won't."

Jonathan still isn't so sure.

But he opens very wide; and the traffic lasts only a little longer than Vlad does.

Chapter Text

They make it to Purfleet an hour before sunrise. To Carfax—

At long last.

Driving up, Jonathan holds his tongue on the property's convenience to both a filling station and a Cantonese takeaway; and too, how the river is near enough to give the air a brackish aroma, pungently dank, exciting his senses.

He's been here. It seems a lifetime ago, but he was here; and he remembers enough to recognize how different the grounds look in the dark. Larger than they are. Deeper, set somehow apart, though on either side the neighbors aren't far. At the break in the perimeter wall stand a couple of twisted old oaks, and a stone guardhouse—unattended.

Also: an electric gate that swings up at Vlad's touch. The older vampire smiles at this, admiring the sleek, digital security panel as it accepts his palm-scan before he pulls his arm back into the car. "Open sesame."

"I don't recall that being there before," Jonathan says. He can still faintly taste Vlad on his lips.

"Right," Vlad agrees. "One of a few enhancements I've ordered since the contracts went through."

Jonathan looks back at him. "I hope you've thought to fix the hole in the parlour ceiling."

Vlad flashes a little fang. "What, planning a party already?" he drawls. And then: "I'll consider it for phase two."

They roll through the entry, the gate lowering behind them, and the Jaguar's full beams slice down the carriage-narrow lane until the manor comes into frame.

A rambling, underkempt estate in gradual but undoubted decay, Carfax grew over the course of centuries, marking time all the way back to the ancient keep; but in the purpling predawn it looks more like some great, looming beast rising from the flat earth than any mortal dwelling…

They park right in front.

Jonathan follows Vlad to the main door, wood inlaid with ironwork under a curtain of ivy. It's equipped with another new bit of security tech blinking red from the gloom, this one with a keypad, and Jonathan takes note of the numbers as Vlad claws them in.

Moment by moment, the growing sense of anticipation in him twists into something sharper, fever bright and lovely. Then a thought occurs. He says, softly, "Vlad?"

The door swings open. "Yes, Johnny?"

"Don't we need to be invited?"

A low chuckle. "No, Johnny." And then: "This place is now under my domain. It's our home."

"Home…" Jonathan murmurs. It seems unreal. But before he can mull on it fully – out of the bloody blue – he’s struck by a yet more maddening idea: that Vlad might lift him into his arms and carry him over the house's threshold—like a bride in truth.

It's frankly embarrassing. Jonathan does his best to push it away.

But it must come across just the same because Vlad's features curl in a fond and curious expression. "My dearest," he says, perhaps holding back laughter, "you never fail to amaze."

And then he lifts Jonathan into his arms.

Chapter Text

All it takes is a step.

*

There's a 42" Fujitsu flat-screen in the living room, and the drawing room, and the billiard room, and the gold room. There's a twelve-piece custom sofa configuration in the lounge. There's a table fit for twenty in the dining hall. There's a Bacon in the master chamber—

Another in the library. And books there too, of course; so many books.

Because to Jonathan's astonishment, despite any rough exterior appearances, Vlad's ordered the whole of Carfax renovated in the latest fashion and convenience, furnished to the bleeding nines, so that once or twice he finds himself trailing behind his maker amid their walk-through of the place, agog at the transformation.

The lights are motion activated, and switch off with their departure from to room, leaving the way behind them dim. Not that it matters. Jonathan's eager brain memorizes his surroundings like a puzzle to be sussed…

And then he feels Vlad's will, pulling him along.

*

"Here," says Vlad, paused outside the final doorway they've still to darken—save for the bedroom. The best for last. And yet: "A special treat."

"What do you mean?" Jonathan wonders.

"Your office."

"I thought you said I'd be working in town."

"Yes. You'll also be working here, at my pleasure." Vlad smiles. "Would you like to check it out?"

Jonathan feels a sick stab of anticipation. He swallows. "Please."

Vlad tilts his head toward the open entry. "Go on, then."

Jonathan does—and bloody hell, let there be light. The lovely, arcing overhead fixture flares on, casting the room into warmth, illuminating the lot.

It'd be spacious, if it weren't for all the stuff.

Computers. Printers. A fax machine, and a dictaphone with headphones on a long, curling wire, and a set of speakers towering beside. Another plasma television set, this one with dual, inset DVD and VHS players. A wall's worth of legal tomes.

A couple of comfortable-looking wing-back leather chairs.

A big desk with Jonathan's name on it.

Three telephones, nestled in their receivers. And a mobile too—with a wallet and belt holster, still pristine in the packaging. Slowly, Jonathan goes to the desk and takes the phone in his hand—

And with a touch of his finger, switches it to marvelous, glowing life.

"Your new number is on your card," says Vlad, coming up to him. "Your e-mail address too."

"Oh," Jonathan agrees. It's all quite a lot. He strokes the mobile's perfectly clear and commonplace screen one more time before setting the thing down again. And then, perplexed: "Two computer towers."

Vlad hums. "I wasn't sure if you're more of a PC guy," he says, "or a Mac guy." His hand drifts to the small of Jonathan's back. "So I bought you one of each. Latest models."

Jonathan gets the memo, turning round in Vlad's arms, leaning up as Vlad dips in, putting the thanks into his kiss. Then something over Vlad's shoulder catches his eye.

"That's Minas Tirith."

"The same, Johnny. Tolkien's own."

Chapter Text

If he's honest, Jonathan hadn't stopped to consider what the sleeping arrangements would actually look like once he and Vlad reached Carfax. Their time at the hotel seemed a respite. After weeks trapped inside that damned shipping container—not to mention their damp and squalid digs below the castle, perhaps he'd hoped he had suffered the worst.

And the big black box, domed lid propped open on a double hinge to reveal a concavity of luxurious scarlet silk, parked in the middle of the space and presently dominating his view?

Not half bad. He comments, blithe: "I didn't realize coffins came in Super King."

"Technically, it's a casket," Vlad corrects. Slowly, he runs a hand down the side, stopping over a heavy platinum fastening curled into a D. "Solid blackwood, titanium reinforced and lined with earth." He smiles. "Marvelous, isn't it? All automated, with a built-in locking mechanism. I'll show you how the controls work."

"Sure." Jonathan has the grace to wonder how much such a thing must have cost; but amid every extravagance, this one seems a drop in the bucket. He nods, saying, "Looks nice," as the yawn he's been holding in comes pouring out.

He could do Vlad one better. But hell: it's getting late, he's tired, and he'd like to go to sleep.

So when Vlad commands, "Undress," Jonathan simply shrugs, without fight. Piece by piece, his road-soiled clothes drop from his body to make an arc around him on the floor.

Vlad strips too. "Now." He smiles—more like leers—to add, "Get in."

Jonathan does. And climbing in after, Vlad taps a button on the box's interior wall before reclining fully. There's a beep; the lid shuts with a pneumatic hiss.

And for a moment: perfect silence.

Then Vlad turns his attention to Jonathan, and in the darkness Jonathan feels more than sees Vlad shift in to take his hand; lift it to his face; and press a kiss to his ring. The gold is as cool as Vlad's lips, but the touch makes Jonathan shiver.

"If it were any earlier," Vlad assures him, "I'd've already had you, on our new marital bed." Another kiss, this one to the inside of Jonathan's wrist. "I suppose I'll get used to the rush hour. And you, my dear, get to rest up."

With that, Vlad pulls Jonathan into his arms, his other hand settling comfortably round Jonathan's bare arse, to hold him close. Jonathan hums, feeling aroused despite himself; smelling the blood on his lordship's breath. He yawns again. "'S considerate."

Built like a wired-up tomb, the vaulted annex abutting the manor's master bedroom suite where their box is hidden is windowless. But Jonathan can easily feel the oncoming dawn as a drag on his senses. He'd like nothing more than to drift away, dreamless.

Then something occurs to him.

"Vlad?"

"Yes, Johnny?"

"D'you like the house?"

"The house?"

"It's why I went to Transylvania, isn't it? So... d'you like it?"

"Oh, Johnny. I love it."

Chapter Text

Jonathan dreams he's walking down a hallway lined with locked doors—and at the end of it…

The one that opens. Only this time, it doesn't.

"What the…" He tries again, harder—and then tentatively knocks. There's still no answer; but even without holding his ear to the door, his keen hearing picks up a scurrying noise from within. He calls, gently, "Hello in there?"

After a moment, a childish voice wants to know: "What d'you want?"

"Just to talk," Jonathan promises. "You've got to let me in."

The voice sounds nearer, but the door stays shut. "You sound like him."

"You mean he isn't there with you?"

Another pause. "Don't you know that?"

Jonathan sucks in a breath. How best to negotiate with his younger self? And so, reasonably, "There isn't a lot I know for certain these days. But it's likely I haven't much time right now." And then: "Please. I want to help."

At last, the place at the heart of Jonathan's mind palace opens to him—and the kid inside gives him a scathing look. Then, milder: "Oh. You brought sherbets."

Jonathan frowns. "What? I don't—" But sure enough, there's a Mr. Whippy in each hand. He says, perplexed, "Well, I'll be damned. Er. Sorry."

The kid rolls his eyes. Swiping one of the ices, he folds himself into the leather chair, ceremoniously peeling off the top, and then takes a lick. Then: "Aren't you gonna have yours?"

Jonathan stares at the package, the white and orange patterned wrapping just as he remembers. It's cold against his skin, the condensation pooling around his fingertips. He wonders what it would taste like to him now—whether the flavor too would be as he remembers.

"No." He puts it on the desk. "You have both."

The kid grins, showing off his missing front tooth. "Ta very much!"

Jonathan glances around the room, regaining his bearings, before he realizes. "It's gone dark in here." The office seems suddenly a foreign land, full of shadows unimagined in the day. He says, "Spooky."

Murmuring around his sherbet, the kid explains, "Since he left."

"And where did he go?"

"We were playing hide and seek, only there's nowhere in here to hide—" A shrug. "Locked the door behind 'im."

Jonathan hates to ask, but needs to know. "Please, is there anything else you can tell me—" He watches the kid's face; and then something in him softens. He crosses the room to open one of the high cabinet doors.

He reaches inside. "Here. We were burgled in the summer of '79," he says. "After, Gran hid one of these in every room."

The heavy, police-style baton flares to life. He gives the thing a flip – that weapons training is really paying off – and hands it over, and to his credit, it illuminates the narrow room rather pleasantly.

But when the kid glares over his thick glasses, drawling, "You expect to fend off Count bloody Dracula with a torch?"

Jonathan isn't so sure.

Chapter Text

"Fine," Jonathan says, "and I suppose you've a better idea."

The kid starts to answer, "Yea—"

"That doesn't involve time travel, dinosaurs, or an army of skeletons."

"Hey! I don't even like dinosaurs anymore."

"Batman, then."

"God! It's not Batman," the kid groans and offers, incomprehensibly, "I'd find Mina."

"Mina," Jonathan says. Then: "Who's Mina?"

"Who's Mina? Only my best mate!"

"I see. And where is Mina now?"

The kid shrugs, presently slurping down the dregs of his first sherbet before moving on to the second. He doesn't need to spot the wastepaper basket to dunk the discarded wrapper into it. Along with the torch, around him in the big chair sit a couple of action figures, a brown and beige crocheted afghan, and a rumpled paperback shoved rudely between the cushions. Quite snug, amid everything.

But he just looks angry, shooting back,"How the hell should I know?"

Jonathan tilts his head, automatic. "All right," he says. And then: "Well. Anyway. Keep the door locked."

*

Back in the long, dim hallway of his mind palace, the study door behind him clicking shut, then diligently locking tight, Jonathan thinks: Mina.

And then, softly aloud, "Mina." He doesn't know what he's hoping for really. But he sets his hand on another doorknob leading to another room, sucks in a steadying breath, and says, "Take me to Mina."

Then he turns it—in the absence of memory, picturing no one and nothing...

And then again, he finds he's only returned to his old flat, once more as it was the night he left it behind. His shoes by the entry. His jacket on the chair. A still-steaming mug on the counter; his briefcase, wallet, keys, and a set of plane tickets to Romania tucked in a paper bi-fold. Ready to go.

The scene ticks into familiarity like the letters on a station flipboard settling so that the message becomes clear. But it's abstract to him too. The place seems long since lived in; hardly even home.

He curls his fingers around the mug, letting the heat leach into his skin, puzzling over the smell of the tea—when he hears something. Or someone. But surely he's alone.

Isn't he?

"Hello?"

The sound comes again, a low growling distinct from the rising street noise and the radio switched on in the bath—then it's more of a purr, and Jonathan feels motion about his feet. The soft flap of a tail. And a small, warm body, butting head-first into his shin.

"Oh," says Jonathan, astonished despite himself. "Hello."

The cat circles back twice before leaning in, looking up, so that the silver, heart-shaped charm on his black leather collar is visible. TOM BOMBADIL.

Without hesitating Jonathan lifts him into his arms, holds him close, presses his lips to the flat of his head, and whispers through a sob, "Tommy, my darling boy."

How could he have forgotten?

For a long moment, for as long as the beast will permit, Jonathan hugs his friend.

Chapter Text

In the dark of the box, this first night in his new home, Jonathan wakes to one thought: "I have a cat."

Vlad's near enough that when he replies, "What?" his breath puffs coolly across Jonathan's cheek.

They're stretched face to face, with Jonathan cradled loosely in Vlad's arms; just how they've spent the day. If it wasn't so horrific, it'd be cozy. And as Vlad lowers his hand down Jonathan's hip, relaxed but with evident destination, Jonathan thinks perhaps it would be easier – let alone advisable – to drop the matter and let his lordship have his way…

But the sense that such a fact might matter to him persists. Quite certain, wanting to be sure, Jonathan repeats, "I have a cat."

"You mean you had a cat, my dear." Vlad's hand has migrated to Jonathan's thigh, over his groin, and Jonathan's body is deliciously responsive, rousing for the other man as faithfully as the fall of night. Vlad chuckles, "And now you have me."

"Mm," Jonathan agrees as Vlad kisses him then, deep and long. And he files the thought of a cat away for sometime else.

In a beat, Vlad has their cocks lined up, his big grip rounding nimbly to stroke them together. The sensation is intense, the sharpness of Jonathan's hunger strengthening the full-bodied feeling of need that leaves him arching inward, sliding closer, his elongated fangs only slurring his words a little. "Please—I want—"

What?

Vlad tells him: "Anything."

Another kiss, this one topped with a swallow of Vlad's own blood. Jonathan moans and leans into it. Hell, he really is thirsty—tightly-wound, taken, though the new, silk and soil-strataed bed had afforded him his best sleep in ages. He hasn't even it in him to bitch about all the lumps.

But maybe that's because he's too busy licking into Vlad's mouth, taking everything he can before the twin, self-inflicted pinprick wounds on Vlad's tongue heal up… When the visions start. The blackness of Jonathan's sight gains a world of color, his mind over-saturating with Vlad's memories—too much—too rapidly to make sense of, wild like the cold water that will carry him under—

No. Vlad has him now. There's no getting away. Presently, Vlad twists his hand so that the pad of his thumb can skim the tip of first his and then Jonathan's cock, smearing the abundance of precome back down both their shafts. Jonathan rocks into him, against him, knowing he'll never last long like this; but it's Vlad's teeth in his neck that push him over the edge.

*

"Hey. Johnny. Darling."

"Mmph."

"There you are. Lost you for a moment."

"What? Oh. More than a moment—bloody hell, looks like we're actually stuck together. Ugh. Disgusting. Please tell me you've updated the plumbing in this old place as well the rest of it."

"Yes, I believe you'll find the facilities to your liking."

"Does that mean there's a bidet installed?"

"Oh, Johnny. I do like the way you think."

Chapter Text

As a matter of fact, the toilet in question is a flashy Japanese number with probably five hundred settings and frequencies—including yes, a bidet.

On the control panel, a digital sprite blinks in blue luminescence: HI!

Jonathan glares back at it and regroups at knotting his necktie. Despite being outfitted splendidly enough to make Scarface green, there aren't any mirrors in Carfax's master bathroom. No surprise; Jonathan and Vlad wouldn't properly reflect in one anyway. But confronted with reality—to actually have to live like this—

"Damn it all!" After Jonathan's fourth butchered attempt at a measly Half Windsor, muttering, mid-pique, Vlad stops his hand lest he can tear the blasted garment to shreds.

"Here," Vlad says. "Allow me."

Jonathan releases a breath. Then he relaxes as Vlad first runs his fingertips round the well-starched ring of his shirt collar, straightening it, then slides the tie back into place beneath.

They'd split a bottle of blood. And then they'd fucked again, this time in the shower, the stall plenty large and the water flowing wonderfully hot between them—until a foreboding rumble rose up from the building's antique pipework, followed by a groan, before the entire system whimpered kaput.

Good job they'd already cleaned up.

Now Jonathan wants to know, Vlad stood close as he shifts the black silk between his fingers, "How much money have you burned on all this, anyway?"

Vlad arches a brow. "Money is of minor concern to the fruition of my plans."

"Right, but—how'd you do this, exactly? I was here not all that long ago. I've seen the photos, anyway. And it's like a different place… dodgy plumbing aside."

"As I said. I'm rich. Your erstwhile firm was most happy to meet my demands… after a substantial transfer of funds." The touch of Vlad's hands makes Jonathan shiver; the tone of his voice, to perk up and hear. And thus Vlad explains, understandably, "Mr. Hawkins continues to oversee the account until completion, of course, but it was Mr. Holmwood who did most of the grunt work. How long had the old girl sat empty, did you say?"

"Decades," says Jonathan. Then, softly, "Holmwood."

"That's right. The young partner, Arthur Holmwood," Vlad says, lightly. "You were colleagues, recall."

"...Yes."

"Good. Well. He's done a commendable job continuing what you started, Johnny. Aside from the more risqué elements of our living arrangements, I do believe he's handled the lot. Scrupulous. The firm has a fine employee in him. You'll have to join me in thanking both Mr. Hawkins and Mr. Holmwood for all their hard work... perhaps at the conference call we've scheduled for… Oh. Next Tuesday? But don't quote me on it, darling. It's written in your datebook… Mm. Naturally, this is the sort of thing I'll expect you to keep track of going forward. Meetings. Events. Dates." Vlad steps back to admire his handiwork. "There. How handsome you look tonight."

Jonathan glances down to examine his tie, reformed into a perfect Truelove.

Chapter Text

There's hardly a star to be seen. The moon, obstructed by pollutants and cloud.

But it's the night—glorious night—and Jonathan's back where he belongs.

He takes a deep huff of air the moment they step outside the house, enjoying the complexity of it, parsing each layer. Dank, humid, green-tinted and pungently metallic, hinting at once of the nearby Thames and laden with industrial fumes – and cigarette smoke and a ladies' perfume and Cantonese takeaway – it's every bit as informative of the world as the primordial woods surrounding Castle Dracula.

Only life of a different sort. And so: "It's lovely."

"Isn't it just," Vlad says, patting his pockets to retrieve his car keys. He clicks the attached fob and the Jaguar unlocks with a chirp. It's been cleaned up, cleared of their bags as well as any remnants of the previous evening's travel; the crumpled tourist brochures and empty flasks of blood.

Jonathan gets in, and finding his seat re-angled and positioned, ventures, "Emil's been round, I presume. Don't you ever give him a day off when he's been a good doggy?"

"No rest for the wicked," Vlad drawls, relishing, and seals Jonathan in with the passenger door. In another moment, he's sat inside too. He straightens, situating his long legs, and turns the key in the ignition, and once it's humming, loudly and needlessly revs the engine. At last he turns his dark gaze back on Jonathan. "Would you care to select the music?"

Jonathan sighs. Reaching low for the wallet, he wonders, "Where are we going, anyway?"

"Oh, I thought we'd just have a look around."

*

Jonathan didn't know it was possible to go 150 down the A13.

*

It's only after the third time Vlad changes lanes and begins to slow the car before Jonathan can even suggest they make the turning that he ventures, "You're reading my mind, aren't you?"

Vlad tilts his head, tapping his leather-gloved fingers on the steering wheel before countering, "It's more like… predicting, with certainty, what you're going to say. Every time."

Jonathan supposes he should be more upset to be deemed so obvious; but he's never much liked playing the back-seat driver. He says, striving for droll, "I've become a sentient SatNav. Well, fuck me."

Taking the way down Whitehall, towards Parliament Square, Vlad smiles. "If you like."

*

When the Dvořák CD ends, Jonathan switches to Bowie.

*

They're stopped at a red light in the West End, and to Jonathan the marquees lining the way seem as brilliant as any sun. The theatres have begun letting out, the late shows wrapped and those half-bleary thousands spilling into the still busy streets: illuminated. And he can do nothing but sit belted into his seat, agog, his eyes feasting, enraptured more than ravenous—I made it back, by hell I made it back—

Vlad meanwhile's turned to the opposite side. There's a touch of genuine delight in his voice as he comments on the nearby Tube entry, "Look, Johnny. There's Leicester Square."

Chapter Text

On Jonathan's desk – behind the twin telephones, beside his diary, between the basket marked IN and the one marked OUT – sits a little wooden figurine which he knows with certainty is neither a demon nor a very ugly baby.

"Vlkoslak," he says, tasting the word, picking the figure up. It's light. Fragile-seeming, the red and black paint chipping occasionally away from the pine, the whole of it looking rather water-logged despite it being dry. He sets it back, fighting the odd, drowsy déjà vu tugging on his senses. Then the feeling passes.

Vlad just smiles. "Excellent pronunciation, my dear." He leans in for a kiss, making good on his approval. Then: "I'll leave you to it now, shall I? And if there's anything you need that I haven't thought of, anything at all, just let me know. All right?"

"All right," Jonathan agrees, though from the look of things he's been equipped with enough RAM to run a mid-sized city—and he's bloody psyched to find out for sure. Yet, wantingly: "Will I see you again later?"

"Of course. Oh. By the way…" Pausing momentarily by the door, Vlad winks. He says, "The bar's in the globe."

Then he leaves Jonathan alone. Jonathan can hear Vlad's footsteps echo down the hallway for some long moments after, followed by his voice, carrying on indistinctly; and Emil's too. He wonders nosily what the henchman's orders might be for tonight even as he's tingling with the urge to follow out his own—

Namely: to check Vlad's messages.

But first Jonathan crosses his office. Stood on three claw-footed legs and reaching to his hip, the sepia-toned globe depicts the sort of antique map that's as populated with sea monsters as it is landmasses. He touches the narrow shelf rounding the equator for any sign of where the thing might open before settling on a metal switch hidden beneath the rim.

He pushes it. With a hum, the globe's lid tilts backward on a motorized hinge, revealing a narrow, climate-controlled space, two glasses, and three bottles.

He hesitates, briefly. Then he pours himself one.

*

While his computer boots up, sipping contentedly, Jonathan sits back in his wide, leather chair and pivots until the gold-framed watercolor picture of Minas Tirith comes into view.

It's the real deal. Not a print, not a copy, no doubt procured for a small fortune… and of course, having total access to Vlad's QuickBooks files, he could easily find out just how small.

A wedding gift, certified and insured.

Something occurs to him.

When he's tapped in his password and the computer's home screen finishes loading and the cursor has stopped its wheeling, he moves the tiny arrow above the icon marked web browser and double-clicks.

A couple of tries later, he gets it right, the mouse at first too feeling fragile in his hand; but he takes his time. And when the browser opens to a fresh page, he takes a breath as he types out: M I N A.

Chapter Text

On the battlefield of Jonathan's mindscape, his kukri knife extended, he thinks he might for once hold the upper hand.

Of course Vlad has other ideas. From all of history's offerings, every imagined implement of suffering, tonight he's armed himself with an enormous longsword. Two-handed handled and heavy, it's nearly as lengthy as his lordship is tall—the sheer girth of it comical, if it hadn't for the last half-hour been poised to take off Jonathan's head. But Vlad wields it masterfully, so that Jonathan knows that dream or no it must be second nature to him.

Also: he manages to make it look sexy as hell.

"Now come," Vlad says, swinging the sword in a showy arc then leveling it before him. "Show me what else you've learned."

"Sure." Jonathan steps backward, adjusting his hold on the kukri, tightening his grip, the leather supple against his palms. For better or worse, he's getting better at this whole fighting thing. The weight of his chosen weapon is becoming familiar in his hands, the sight of his own reflection in its blade less provocative…

And the ways he might manipulate their weird, ruby-tinted surroundings are clearer to him too: aiming for surprise, from out of the raw firmament he raises a rough plateau, nimbly side-jumping it before kicking out again, straight into Vlad's chest, tackling the larger man to the ground with a thump.

Vlad swears floridly in Romanian as the sword clanks from his hands, out of reach, into the swirling gloom. Jonathan meanwhile has him straddled about the waist. Pinned. He leans in, angling the kukri's gleaming edge over Vlad's throat, enjoying his conquest… only to realize just how much Vlad's enjoying it too.

Jonathan says, dry, "I thought this was supposed to be weapons training."

By way of answer, Vlad rolls his hips so that Jonathan must momentarily ride him, fully supported, making Jonathan gasp; and by the time he rocks again, Jonathan has lowered the knife to the side.

Vlad says, "Consider yourself disarmed."

Then he surges forward to move his mouth on Jonathan's, his hands shifting on Jonathan's hips so that he can undo his belt, tugging his shirt from his waistband. Jonathan supposes he should probably remember to project himself wearing fewer clothes next time. But for now the feeling of Vlad's fingers drifting up beneath the linen is lusciously erogenous, and there's a tremor in his plea—

*

It's at this moment that the sun sets, and Jonathan wakes up.

*

"Fuck," he groans, chasing fruitlessly after the remnants of the dream; but there's nothing for it. The kukri is gone. He's wide awake. Nowhere but the casket, cradled in blackness as well as Vlad's arms, the night awaiting him along with its myriad to-dos, so that it's only out of habit that he barters, "Five more minutes, I'm begging…"

But then again, Vlad's hands are back on Jonathan's hips. Jonathan can feel the curl of Vlad's smile as he says, "Why not make it ten."