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They took a train to Budapest. Tickets paid for in advance, the box of dark earth neatly tagged as luggage. Jonathan had thought through all the details of the trip a hundred times, gone over them as closely as he once had memorized the law code, as if he would be tested on them, but once they arrived at the station he found himself overwhelmed by all the lights, so much brighter than the candles and firelight to which he had grown accustomed. He found that he remembered, too, the feeling of walking through that particular station, standing at the ticket booth and dropping coins from his trembling hands as once he had done, human and feverish with the energy of his escape.
Back then, he could think of nothing except his own survival and the horrors he was fleeing; he had not even the presence of mind to notice his fellow passengers, though in remembering he found himself imagining their reactions to him, how they must have edged away on the platform, avoided the seat beside him. Now on this new journey, he could see everything; his eyes, as if starved for unfamiliar sights, took in each detail. He was fascinated watching the travelers gather on the platform, men and women and the children they towed along with them, the ways that they spoke to one another, held their bags, adjusted their hats. He felt he could have stood for hours, just feeling them move around him.
Then he felt Vlad’s hand on his back and Jonathan realized he had been forgetting to breathe. He started again, abruptly, flexing his palms as he tried to break out of the unnatural stillness into which he had thoughtlessly lapsed. He felt suddenly aware of how odd he must seem with his pallor and his white hair and his now old-fashioned suit; nearly as odd as the Count seemed, surely. It would be harder than he expected to pass for human.
Once on the train, he spent most of his time watching out the window. There were no humans to watch in their compartment, and he kept catching his gaze edging towards the dull carpeting, looking for a tea stain there. No point to that; no point, either, in imagining a woman’s body curled up on the seat opposite to his, skirts folded around her bound ankles, hands pillowed beneath her head. Instead, he followed the shifting landscape as it passed in the dark, and thought about how wide the world was. Sitting beside him, the Count read.
When they arrived in the city, a carriage was waiting for them (arrangements which had been challenging to make by letter, Jonathan thought ruefully, but not impossible, not when you were willing to offer enough money for the driver’s pains). It took them to an old house, clearly long-untended, though the lock on the gate had been replaced recently; it gleamed bright silver, not dull rust. The Count let them inside, into a front room just as thick with dust as Jonathan had imagined. Sheets covered over all the furniture, and heavily curtains blanketed the windows. Spiders worked busily at the corners of the room, undisturbed by their entrance.
Jonathan set down the heavy box of earth, and went to the window, pushing aside the curtains and gazing at the street outside. Lamplight made a golden pool on the cobblestones. Into it, a couple stepped, arm in arm, dark heads bent together. A woman alone, in low-heeled shoes, a servant’s merino skirt visible underneath her coat and weariness in her lidded eyes.
“Jonathan. Come sit.”
He turned from the window with reluctance. Vlad was already seated himself, having divested of its white drape a chair which could perhaps have dated from before the French revolution. Jonathan sat across from him, working to bring his focus back as he settled his hands upon his knees.
“You must pace yourself,” Vlad told him, “this is much for you to take in.”
“I’d forgotten,” Jonathan said, “that there were so many people in all the world. And to see them together - couples, families….”
“It feeds you, being close to them. It is a hunger as true as that for the blood. But you can just as easily surfeit yourself in gorging upon it. You must maintain your own clarity. Return your focus to me, when you find yourself close to being lost in them.”
“It wasn’t like this, before, when you brought me with you -” Jonathan felt he could come no closer than this to speaking directly from his memory, but Vlad smiled.
“You were younger then, in your undeath, closer to your former humanity. And you had one particular human on which to focus. This will be a different effort. But I would not have brought you if I didn’t trust your capacity to mange it.”
Jonathan tilted his head back, taking in the room around him. “Until recently, it never occurred to me that you might own other property. I don’t know why; it was a foolish assumption to make. But you could have met me here, when you sent for a solicitor from London. It would have been much simpler. Why didn’t you?”
Vlad laughed. “Jonathan, can you imagine what would have happened if I had welcomed you into this house? You would have been out the window and on your way to accost the nearest police officer before I could get in any reasonable English practice with you at all. I needed time. This place serves my needs, but it’s no foundation from which to act. And I had promised that the girls would share in your blood.”
Jonathan took a slow breath, almost feeling the contours of the crucifix between his fingers again. It would pass. He was here. That time was over.
He could feel the Count watching him, tracking each twitch of his fingers. When he saw that Jonathan had managed to settle himself, he spoke again. “But now, we are both hungry. Clean yourself, change your clothes. I’ll show you the city.”
-
Jonathan had been practicing his German for years now. He was diligent about it, spending the long hours alone in his bedroom reading Goethe and Schiller as he had been instructed, and then enduring the Count’s correction of his grammar and pronunciation when they were together. He had always been a dedicated student, but this was far more effort than he had ever spent in school. He had gotten very good.
The work of the language had been an anchor to hold to when past and present blurred, as they had so often and sometimes did still. His bedroom for these past several years was the same one which he had been given as a human, and he was rarely permitted to leave it except to accompany the Count in the library. He tried to endure this dictate with dignity, but sometimes he still broke down and begged. The Count’s tone, when he denied him, was unsparing but without cruelty. “This is what you need,” he would tell Jonathan, “we both know that now.”
In the past two years, the Count had begun leaving Jonathan’s door unlocked, with the expectation that he remain within unless given express permission to do otherwise. Jonathan would sit alone on the bed, his hands clenched until the nails cut into the skin, trying to keep himself from running out the door. But he had managed; it had gotten easier with time, and he had been deemed ready for this journey.
-
They went together to a tailor, an expensive one with evening hours, to replace their conspicuously old-fashioned suits. The tailor seemed accustomed to serving eccentric aristocrats who had the money to back up their unusual requests; his deference was understated but unmistakable. Vlad spoke to the tailor in Hungarian; no one seemed bothered by Jonathan’s silence.
Vlad sat and watched as the tailor and his assistant measured Jonathan, the assistant clearly trying not to react to the chill of his skin just as Jonathan tried with the same effort not to react to the warmth of the assistant’s pulse. Jonathan felt the weight of Vlad’s gaze as he turned under the tailor’s tape measure, felt the tight weave of the fabrics against his skin.
Vlad did not have himself measured (“we can wear the same clothes,” he reminded Jonathan), but ordered multiples of everything in what felt to Jonathan like a dizzying display of wealth, a whole wardrobe to be shipped back through the Carpathians. He also took from the tailor’s shop an array of pamphlets on the newest fashion designs for women. The etchings on the pamphlets showed women with wide, draping bodices and narrow waists, hair gleaming and swept forward. They left the store with a new jacket on Jonathan’s back, briskly modified for his narrow frame, and he found himself unexpectedly pleased at the feeling of something new and clean on his skin.
The next night, they went to the theater. It was a production of Hamlet, in German, and Jonathan was delighted to find that his grasp of the language was strong enough to follow the play as it happened, though it felt strange to hear the familiar lines, which he had read so often aloud to himself first as a boy and then as a young man, declaimed in a language not his own. Before the performance began, a member of the company came out and and announced that the production was dedicated to the recently passed Sir Henry Irving, whose death was a loss to theater all the world over. To his surprise, Jonathan felt tears spark in his eyes. They did not stop as the lights were dimmed and the opening scene began.
A joy, then, to see the story unfold in front of him, the action studded through with Hamlet’s myriad soliloquies, the meditations on life and death and responsibility which Jonathan, as an orphaned adolescent with little certainty about how he would support himself, had found so evocative. They held new meanings for him now, Hamlet’s questions about sanity and madness, about sleep and nightmares, about the weight of killing and what lies beyond death. While he did not imagine himself a discerning judge, he felt persuaded by the actors; the strong-browed leading man who played the title role, the smooth-voiced insinuating older actor who played Claudius, and the actress playing Ophelia, who had olive skin and rich brown hair, and who Jonathan could not help finding very beautiful.
In the fourth act, when Ophelia emerged in a light gown, the brown har loose and disordered over her shoulders, Jonathan found the tears in his eyes almost grow into sobs. Vlad, sitting next to him, leaned his body towards him, rested his hand on the back of Jonathan’s neck. Jonathan quelled the tears. His eyes also caught movement, a few rows back and to his right; a young man, sitting alone, had noticed Vlad’s gesture. His eyes linked with Jonathan’s.
After the play was over, the man waited outside the theater and touched Jonathan’s shoulder when he and Vlad emerged. “Pardon me,” he said, “but I noticed how moved you were by the performance. Are you in theater yourself?”
Jonathan froze for a moment, unsure whether or how to respond, until he saw Vlad’s infinitesimal nod of permission. “I am not,” he answered in German, “I am a solicitor.”
The man smiled at his accent, friendly but cautious. “You’re not Hungarian! Where are you visiting from? If you don’t mind my asking; I’m sorry for my forwardness.”
Jonathan could not help smiling back. “England, and I have no Hungarian myself, I’m afraid, only German.” He paused for a breath, uncertain how this interaction would go. “My name is Jonathan.”
The man smiled then outright, as if relieved that his greeting had been received as it was. “And I’m János - we have the same name, almost. And your…companion?” His voice was more tentative as he turned towards Vlad, and the meaning of the overture clicked for Jonathan.
The Count’s response was smooth. “Vlad. I am from Transylvania, but I lived near Budapest for some years. I wanted to bring Jonathan to see the city.”
János nodded. “It’s a beautiful city, and I think there’s more culture here every year. And more openness, too, even for those of us who must be careful in how we live.” A pause, barely noticeable. “I am a writer, myself. I don’t know how long you are staying, but there’s a club here in the city - only if you’re interested, of course - “
Jonathan stood very still. He tried not to look at Vlad.
“You’re very kind. I have few friends in the city, now, and would welcome an introduction from one familiar here. We had no plans following the theater - if you know a place where we all might become better acquainted, Jonathan and I would be most pleased.”
János flushed. “I - of course, the club doesn’t meet tonight, but if you’d like - my own rooms aren’t far from here.”
Jonathan didn’t want to see Vlad’s smile, but he knew he had to speak himself. “Thank you,” he said, “we are most grateful for your invitation.”
-
Jonathan spent most of his time with the Count alone, but sometimes he brought Adriana to Jonathan’s room and had the two of them practice hypnotism on one another. They would alternate attempting to take control of one another’s minds as the Count sat nearby and gave instructions.
It was Jonathan’s turn, and he was trying to direct Adriana to do simple actions - to stand and sit and stand again, to go fetch a pen from his writing desk. She had been instructed to try and resist his control, which seemed to make her anxious, though it showed only in her how wide her dark, liquid eyes went in her oval face. Adria was older and stronger than he, and her resistance made her mind slippery, difficult for him to catch at with his own. But, after many tries, he did, and felt a grim satisfaction seeing her standing smoothly at his command, like an automaton.
“Good, Jonathan,” the Count said, and Jonathan felt a warmth at his sternum. “Now, give her something more difficult to do.”
Jonathan could not let his focus waver, or his control would slip; he went with the first order that came to him, Undress, he told her to her mind. A waver, then, in the connection between them, but it steadied, and her movements still eerily even, she removed first her dress and then her shift. Jonathan felt a moment of shock at the contrast between Adria’s exposed body and his own, still fully clothed.
“Keep going,” the Count told him, “but now I want you to adjust the vector of your control; take only her will, but not her capacity for awareness or feeling about what is happening. We’ve practiced this before; you know how to do it.”
Jonathan hesitated, but it was true, he did; it was like adjusting his grip of a horse’s reins. He could feel the difference in Adria’s presence, though nothing changed on her face.
“Continue.”
Jonathan drew a breath, and then guided Adria’s hand, with its sharp nails, towards the soft flesh inside her arm; there, an edge of resistance, but he could hold his control steady, and not let himself be thrown by it. He felt alongside her as her nails broke the skin and dragged along it in long gashes. Pain twisted her mouth, but no sound came from her throat. He made her hold her nails there, in her own flesh, blood beading around them.
“Enough,” the Count said finally, and Jonathan released the reins of the hypnotism. Adria suddenly, belatedly, cried out, a brief, high sound. She turned towards the Count, who was behind her, and buried her face in his chest, holding her bleeding arm out to him as if in offering or in demonstration of the pain, Jonathan could not tell. He watched the Count take her wrist between his fingers and lick the blood from the cuts, then hold her for several long moments.
As he watched, Adriana composed herself, took up her clothes from the floor, and redressed. The Count sat back down. “Now,” he said, “I want you to switch roles.”
-
János’ rooms were tight and chilled, crowded into the garret of a boarding house, but he kept them neat and free from dust and grime. He had more books than the room was meant to hold, but they were all neatly piled, alongside paper and pen and ink. Jonathan glanced at the titles, but couldn’t read most of them.
“I apologize,” János said, moving a chair, “that there aren’t more places to sit. I don’t host very much, I’m afraid. But I have a bottle of wine!” He sounded excited, as if he’d just remembered this. “And it’s good wine too - I have a cousin, you see, who works as the accountant for a vineyard and sometimes he -“
The poor man was babbling with anxiety. Well, there’s was no reason to draw this out longer than he had to. Jonathan stepped forward, placed a hand at the back of János’ skull, and kissed him.
It was the first time he had kissed a man other than Vlad; János’ mouth was warm, and he tasted of licorice. He made it a good kiss. When they separated, he could feel that János’ pulse had sped.
“I didn’t want to assume,” János said finally, “but I hoped - god, you’re beautiful, but - “ he glanced at Vlad. “You don’t mind? If you want to…”
Vlad sat down on the rickety chair János had brought over. “I’ll watch, if you have no objection. Perhaps join you both later. You’re younger than I; you have more stamina. My appetites can be assuaged in time.”
Was János blushing? Jonathan had forgotten so much about how human skin looked. “Of course I don’t mind.” He looked back to Jonathan. “May I?” Jonathan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Another kiss, and soon enough they were on János’ narrow bed, far in progress towards the removal of their clothes. Jonathan felt his teeth sharp in his mouth.
Then Vlad addressed him, in English. “Go slowly, Jonathan. Take his will but not his pain.”
János looked up, startled at Vlad’s cold tone and the unfamiliar words, but then Jonathan caught a hold of his mind. Human’s minds were so much easier to control; his, unguarded by arousal and surprise, came into his power easily. He tilted his head back, his body yielding under Jonathan’s, though as Jonathan bit down he could feel János’ muscles tense in startled anguish. But he could not scream, could not make a noise, not under the heavy weight of Jonathan’s hypnosis.
The blood was sweet and good after the fast on the train, but he stayed alert to Vlad, and drew away when he came to join him on the bed, let Vlad take his place. He watched as Vlad bit János on the throat close to where Jonathan himself had done, the bite marks interlocking like flowers on a chain. They alternated drinking from him as János lost consciousness and Jonathan, with relief, could relinquish the effort of his control. And then they drank again, bringing the man past unconsciousness and into death.
Afterwards, Jonathan felt weary, despite the energy of the blood filling him up. He found that he wanted nothing more than to sit beside the cooling body in the dim quiet of the garret room, the sounds of the city stealing in the window. But Vlad was there with him.
“I wonder how good his writing was,” Jonathan said finally.
“This was his fate,” Vlad said, with equanimity.
“Do you ever think about that, though,” Jonathan continued, the newness of everything making him bold, “what those we kill would have done with their lives? If we killed all the writers, we wouldn’t have any more books to read, or plays to watch.”
Vlad smiled. “And if I killed all the solicitors, then I would have no one to manage my affairs. But yet I’ve managed. And so shall the world, with us in it.”
Jonathan had a sudden fantasy of János in the castle with them, writing whatever it was he wrote for all eternity. But that was not what had happened.
“I wonder sometimes,” he said, the words tripping across his tongue as Hamlet instructed his players to speak, “what my life would be, if you had not interrupted its course. I might have been successful leading the Hawkins firm, or I might have failed at it, and be living in penury. I might have a child now, and Mina and I might fret over their troubles and quarrel over where they should go to school. I might own a house outside of London and plant rosebushes in the front garden.” He looked at János’ body, a sour sadness in his throat. “I might never have thought to go to bed with a man. Or maybe I would have, and felt guilt for it. I don’t know. I’ll never know.”
Vlad was silent, watching him.
“Do you ever wonder those things?” Jonathan asked him, “About yourself. Do you ever wonder what your life would be, if you had not become this?”
Vlad tilted his head. “If I had not become this, I would be long dead.” Then, as if relenting, “I was older than you were, when I became what we are. I had lived more of a life. I’ve taken all of you young - I believe it to be better that way, that your minds are more pliable, less shaped by preconceptions. But it means that you are with me through this time that would perhaps have been the span of your natural life, when you can feel the pull of those possibilities that shall not be. I’ve seen that to be the most difficult time, for each of you. You have some decades still to go in that span. But, with time, the pull of those possibilities will ease.”
Jonathan thought about how the last decade had felt so long and short at once, the weeks and months unmarked by the rhythms of work and study and exam. The speed of hours spent in stillness, or the agonizing slowness of minutes spent in pain. He tried to imagine fifty years of that, a hundred, more. He still could not.
“We’re done here,” Vlad said, “let’s go.”
-
He was being permitted to go to the library himself, at appointed and prearranged times; he was never to arrive too early or too late, not to extend or delay the moment of leaving his detested bedroom. Most of the time, the Count was waiting for him when he arrived, ready with the books and papers he wanted them to study together. Sometimes the Count was not quite there yet, and he could sit alone by the fire, relishing the sight of the open door.
One night, he came and Mina was still there, standing by the desk with the Count, their heads bent together. She was wearing a long emerald-colored dress with a square-cut neck, of a fashion he had never seen her in. She was speaking, animated, gesturing as she did; at the sound of his footsteps she stopped and froze.
Jonathan too stopped, fixed at the room’s doorway, unable to advance or to retreat. The Count looked up, and for a moment all three of them were silent.
“I apologize,” the Count said finally, perhaps to both of them, “I mistook the time. Mina, you may leave for today.”
She bent her head, “Thank you, my lord,” she told him.
Jonathan watched, and found he could not move, even though he was standing in her way. She neither met his gaze nor asked him to move, just slipped herself past him as she left. There was not enough space, and their hands brushed. He thought he felt her fingers twitch against him, for an instant only, and then she was gone.
“Come inside, Jonathan,” the Count ordered, and he made himself move. As he reached the desk the Count was already taking out the books on property law he wished Jonathan to review with him, but Jonathan saw, still lying there, as bold as letters between two lovers, what it was he had been working on with Mina. He went still, and didn’t let himself react.
“Sit down,” the Count told him, spreading open a book with ink-stained fingers, seemingly unaware of what Jonathan had seen, “we have so much to do.”
-
The next day, strong with the blood they both had drunk, Vlad and Jonathan went out in the early afternoon, long before the sun had set. They had official offices to visit, where they would test for the first time how well Jonathan could truly pass still as a human solicitor, whether what he had retained of his human manners would be enough to smooth the way to the next stage of Vlad’s plans. Jonathan felt an edge of nervousness, but mostly calm resolve; he had rehearsed these interactions many times, the way he would present the papers, confident but fumbling them just enough in his hands, the questions it would be right to ask as an English professional traveling for business. He was almost looking forward to it.
Before their appointment, they stopped at a bookstore Vlad knew. The owner, with whom Vlad had apparently corresponded, brought out his new arrivals for him. While Vlad looked over The Golden Bowl, Jonathan watched out the window. A couple passed by, the woman holding the hand of a boy of perhaps five. Jonathan took note of the location of the post office across the street.
-
Alone again in his bedroom with the moon out the window and the cries of the wolves sounding in the distance, Jonathan took out his diary for the first time in many years, and began to write a letter.