Chapter Text
The displeasure of Count Dracula was a dreadful thing to behold.
Jonathan lay shrinking on the mothbitten couch as the weird sisters hovered with palpable ravenous tension, the air nigh shivering with the force of their need. He dared not move for fear that the slightest twitch would send the contents of his throat spilling across the dust-laden fabric. Even their Master’s temper was barely holding them at bay.
“How dare you touch him, any of you?” he bellowed. “How dare you gaze upon him when I had forbidden it? This man belongs to me.”
“To you? For what purpose? You yourself never loved,” the fairest of the three taunted. “Better to sup from him now and be done with it.”
Jonathan expected the Count to tear her limb from limb for such insolence, but he quailed when the vampire’s attention inexplicably turned to him instead. What he wouldn’t have given in that moment never to have fallen asleep in this accursed place!
“Yes, I too can love,” the Count said in a tender voice far more treacherous than his screams. The black pools of his pupils were dangerously easy to drown in as they pierced Jonathan. “How dare you deny this, your very past? Hear me now: any harm done to him shall be returned upon you twofold. Begone!”
“Are we to have nothing tonight?” the tallest and proudest figure among them interrupted. She alone had a trace of restraint in her bearing. Jonathan followed her pointed finger to a small bag the Count had discarded on the floor. His eyes were still hard, but the instant his chin dipped in acquiescence, all three of the fiends fell upon it like vultures. There was a living thing in there, a creature which wept suspiciously like a child.
He could bear no more. He flung himself from the couch as he succumbed to terror, his wits dissolving beyond recall. The Count’s shocking words echoed in his head as he fled the castle’s west wing.
This man belongs to me!
Peals of soulless laughter reverberated through the floor as Jonathan bolted up the stairs, nearly losing his footing more than once. It would mean his death if he fell. Were they following him? He could hear nothing now save for his own gasping. There was a metallic taste coating his tongue that he couldn’t quite place.
He mustn’t fall. He mustn’t.
He hadn’t run like this since he was a boy, and even then, he’d never been as boisterous as his schoolmates. His poor lungs were heaving like overworked bellows, and was that in fact blood he was tasting? They’d captured him after all, tearing into his throat while his mind fabricated this escape as a final crumb of comfort!
Jonathan failed to check his speed when he burst forth from the stairway and ran into the opposite wall with a resounding smack. He reeled backward as a warm, thick substance dribbled over his lips. There was no time for this, he would die if he faltered. Left, down the hallway. Wait, right. Yes! Oh, he was close.
There! The door, his freedom! The bolts and chains were undone—had the Count returned as a regular man would?—but surely it would be locked. Surely…
The door swung open so easily beneath his palm that he nearly toppled backward and cracked his tailbone on the floor. Jonathan steadied himself as a gust of diamond-fine snow rushed forth, pricking his face. Nothing in his life had ever felt so lovely.
“Thank you, God,” he whispered reverently as he sucked in great gulps of icy air. The cleansing purity of it was intoxicating. It did not occur to him then that he would succumb to such elements long before he’d be within miles of help.
Nothing but the renewed burst of hope and energy the fresh air gifted him mattered. He ran.
_______🥀_______
He did not, in fact, run for long.
Jonathan had stuck doggedly to the clearing of the primitive road, unwilling to trust the swaths of forest on either side of him no matter how much tempting cover they offered. His feet dragged clumsily through the drifts, two heavy bricks hanging uncomfortably on his legs. The snow had begun seeping through the thin soles of his shoes with his first step across the threshold. The rest of his clothing was in a similar damp state, but it was his face that ached the worst. The gusting snowflakes felt like the stings of a thousand tiny insects. It was difficult to keep his eyelids open against their fury.
He understood well enough now that he’d likely die from exposure, yet he felt little regret. At least this ending would be clean. The violent shivering that had wracked his thin frame after the initial euphoria faded was gradually gentling. When it ceased entirely, he suspected he’d be unable to keep himself from lying down. He would like to think of Mina for a time before he... Well. Before.
Young though he may be, Jonathan had certainly learned that there were worse fates that could befall a man. Worse places as well, he supposed, for the attraction of this country could not be denied. The glorious full moon floating amidst the treetops was very nearly bloated to twice the size it had ever been in Exeter’s skies. Between its light and the brilliance of the pristine snow, he could almost convince himself that dawn was near. If only. Given the luxury of a choice, he would have preferred to pass away in the daylight.
To think that it’d come to this! There was a small part of him, conflicted and buried deep, that felt drawn to his host. It wasn't just fawning respect for his title. No, it was something deeper and more difficult to name.
Ever since his arrival, he’d found himself intrigued by the other man's presence, the way he occupied space with such solid, unshakable weight. There was safety in that steadiness, and he was so learned, so refined. And yet, the longer he’d stayed here, the more unsettling that presence had became. The man was a paradox, both a source of fear and of unexpected comforts. He’d had such strange thoughts running through his head the last few days.
There was no need to entertain them any further. It was almost at an end, and now he knew all.
He knew enough, at the very least.
He lingered to consider a fallen tree, debating the merits of curling up in its spindly arms for a final embrace when he heard it: the howl of a wolf.
What had he called them? The children of the night?
Who was this he again?
Jonathan’s tired eyes flicked up from the tree to a pair of yellow orbs suspended in midair. Lanterns—a rescuer? He wiped the frost from his lashes with stiff fingers that didn’t quite obey him any longer, squinting at the shapes and willing his sluggish brain to make sense of them.
A wolf took a single step forward, its paw sinking into the snow as yellow eyes assessed Jonathan unblinkingly. It was a young thing, a sleek and shining beast of dappled grey, and the dying solicitor watched it approach with an alarming lack of concern. He’d seen a wolf once at the London zoo, but it had been little more than a dog compared to this striking specimen.
A second howl sounded, close enough to rattle his eardrums. His neck swiveled with difficulty to observe another wolf a few hearty strides away. Its tail flicked to and fro in a fondly familiar manner that made Jonathan’s heart ache. He stretched out an arm as he was struck with the sudden urge to pat its ears.
The wolf’s lips peeled away from pink gums to display a row of glistening fangs, the sight of which kindled the first spark of understanding. Jonathan turned to his right to see two additional wolves watching politely, their heads cocked with interest. Hungry interest.
Oh.
“No, please,” he mumbled. He couldn’t feel his lips. “Not like this.”
He staggered backward a few steps, the yellow-eyed brute in front of him steadily creeping forward. It refused to concede a single inch to its supper.
“Please,” he tried again as a yip of excitement sounded through the clearing.
The wolf’s snarl rivaled those of the vampiric women as it lunged forward. Jonathan wobbled on his heels as jagged teeth snapped closed on the air in front of him.
What hidden reserves he drew from to run once more, he would never know. He simply knew that he was running and must continue to do so for as long as he was able. A joyous cacophony of whines and barks sounded as the wolves joined in pursuit. There was nothing for it but to dive into the forest’s depths and pray that he might lose them.
The snow was sparser here, but the branches clawed at his face and limbs as they conspired with his hunters. His heart thudded violently against his ribcage as he wound through the trees in a passingly clever but ultimately pointless pattern. The wolves could neither be outrun nor outwitted in their own territory. But at least he tried, for Mina’s sake. He doubted there would be any scraps left for the poor girl to mourn over. Perhaps if he could climb a tree he might—
Jonathan cried out as his left foot suddenly sank through the thin covering of snow and into the opening mouth of a burrow. The shout grew into an agonized shriek as his ankle rolled and twisted, taking him down in an undignified heap. He’d only just hit the ground when a four-legged weight landed on his back and drove the air from his lungs.
Mina... He had tried!
The thing was slavering in anticipation judging by the hot droplets of fluid hitting the back of his neck. He sincerely hoped it was intelligent enough to close its teeth around said neck until he expired. If he were to be eaten alive, he might as well have remained in the castle.
When the wolf threw its head back to howl, the triumphant sound was answered not by its loyal companions but with a foreign roar of outrage. Jonathan felt the animal startle atop him. He had the briefest of moments to contemplate mauling by bear before the wolf was tackled from his person with a disturbingly human scream.
He scrabbled forward on his belly, self-respect the furthest thing from his mind. He’d barely crawled more than a few inches when another wrathful cry froze his blood. A peek over his shoulder revealed not a bear but another wolf, darker and impossibly larger than its cousin. Its sides heaved as it glared at him. Wolves weren’t capable of glaring, surely, yet this one managed it. The smaller wolf took advantage of its lapse in attention and darted forward to clamp its teeth around one front leg. Jonathan couldn’t help but be impressed by its tenacity in the face of such odds. He turned back, willing himself to show the same grit as they resumed their fight. First to this thicker tree, then to that tree with the gouge in its trunk, ever onward. He wouldn’t waste this chance he’d been given.
The snarling reached a fever pitch as he dragged himself over a fallen tree. It was a hideous noise! Cerberus in the underworld could not sound half as fierce as these earthbound hellhounds did. He was unable to suppress his own pathetic yelp when his damaged ankle briefly caught on the tree trunk, but he drew no further attention. It seemed all interest in English cuisine had waned for the time being.
A shrill lament pierced his ear. Jonathan was dismayed to discover that he'd only moved a few yards when he glanced behind. The smaller wolf was cowering beneath the larger, its tail tucked between its legs while the rest of the pack watched from a respectful distance. Time was running out; he must keep at it. One more tree, two…
Something was wrong.
The abrupt silence was strangely deafening. When he looked back again despite his better judgement, the forest was empty in a way that could not be trusted. Discomforted, he stretched an arm out to pull himself forward a few more torturous inches as he kept a wary eye over his shoulder.
Instead of frosty powder, his palm met the unyielding, leathery texture of a boot. He needn’t have looked to know who stood before him, yet he felt compelled to turn and do so all the same. It was a two-legged fiend now, but while its form had changed, its fury had not. A red liquid was dripping steadily from one arm.
“Fool!” the Count raged, his eyes searing through the silver moonlight. Jonathan could not bear to look upon him in such a state. He cringed into the snowbank like a frightened fawn and waited for death.
“Did I not expressly warn you against sleeping outside of your chambers?” he seethed. “Did I not protect you once this night, only for you to spurn me and seek death’s bosom yet again?”
Jonathan pressed his numb face against the snow as the Count’s breath roiled the air above him. Oh, let it be quick, as quick and merciful as such a thing could be. Let it be better than the wolves would have been.
“Little fool,” the Count spat again, softer this time. “What are you doing? Up. Up with you!”
He was lifted by his collar when he did not comply swiftly enough.
“Do not make—”
The Count’s words were drowned out by a screech. Jonathan dangled white-faced in his grasp as his left leg buckled, unable to support his weight.
When he was tossed back into the snow, he knew this was to be the end. He welcomed it gladly. There would be pain, yes, but there would also be peace.
White faded to black.
_______🥀_______
He floated above the ground, heavy and numb as his head nestled into the curve of a shoulder. Though not quite warm, it was comforting in a way nothing else had been since his childhood. It was a little unusual how distant his body felt, how his thoughts scattered and melted like the snowflakes on his skin. No matter. He was certain he could stand if he wanted to; he simply did not. Why should he? This rest had been sorely won after trials too dark for a man’s heart to bear. Let him be selfish for once in his life, and let Death carry him where it would.
He nuzzled closer, seeking a heartbeat that wasn’t present.
_______🥀_______
There were people talking. He rather wished they wouldn’t. One of them was even removing his shirt, which hardly seemed appropriate. Were they preparing his body for the funeral? That was acceptable, then.
Poor, dear Mina. At least he had not made her a true widow. She needn’t mourn for so very long, and she would find someone better, someone wealthier who—
Jonathan screamed as he was dropped unceremoniously into a vat of boiling water. He hadn’t known his vocal cords were capable of producing such notes, but his fingers and toes were melting off the bones. The agony was impossible. He thrashed against the arm pushing him down further, wavering cries distorting ghoulishly as his ears were forced beneath the water. One flailing hand snatched a fistful of fabric and pulled himself up in a final act of desperation.
“Little fool,” a voice mourned before the heat consumed him.
_______🥀_______
For a man who had been scalded alive, Jonathan felt remarkably snug. It was with great reluctance that he let sleep slip through his fingers, rejoining the waking world bit by bit. Odd, that. His rest should have been eternal. Doubtless there was an explanation.
It was when he tried and failed to lift an arm to wipe his damp brow that concern blossomed in his breast. There was a heavy object draped over him—he was positively drowning in it. When he finally opened his eyes, it was to the sight of the Count looming over the armchair he’d been deposited into.
“Oh, God,” he moaned. It was to be a slow demise, then.
The vampire’s teeth flashed in what might have been a grin. “You flatter me, my friend.”
“Have mercy. I don’t wish to die like this,” he pleaded, mortified by the feeble tremor in his voice.
“Then it is most fortunate that you shall not. You are back within the walls of my home and under my protection.”
Jonathan moaned again. He’d been so close!
“To death only,” the Count said. Jonathan stared blankly until he realized that he’d spoken the thought aloud, trying and failing once more to wipe a rivulet of sweat running down his cheek. He’d been bundled into a lavish blend of sheepskin, sashes, and fur that weighed more than his entire person. He had never seen such a coat before. Based on its musty odor, it wasn’t exactly in fashion any longer even in this far-flung corner of civilization.
A multitude of pains were settling into his limbs in an eager bid for his attention. There was a peculiar prickling sensation in his fingers and toes, and his face smarted from the razor-thin lashes of countless branches. That, and the bite of the cold which left him feeling raw. He could not fathom why his nose felt particularly sore until he recalled colliding with the wall in his hysteria. Dear Lord, the shame of it! The Count was eyeing him with a mirthful appearance that suggested he knew full-well the contents of his thoughts. Gone was the demon from the woods, yet it was difficult to feel grateful as he yielded to the misery that was his wrenched ankle. It had been transformed into a hot, useless ball of agony that cruelly mimicked the beating of his heart with its own throbbing. Jonathan chewed on his tongue to keep from whining while the Count continued to stare.
“My delay in your retrieval was an error of judgement,” he finally proffered to break the silence. “I might have found you sooner had I not esteemed your wisdom, for I assumed you had fled back to the safety of your room. Imagine my surprise when I opened the door to discover it empty!”
Jonathan’s red cheeks darkened further. “You cannot fault me for seeking my freedom.”
“Freedom from what, precisely? My hospitality? Are the sheets not smooth enough, the menu unsuited to your palate? The bath water was most certainly not to your liking.” The Count cocked one dark brow as Jonathan gaped at him with bewilderment. He tried to shrug the oppressive coat off for lack of anything to say.
“Allow me,” the Count offered—ordered—as he eased it from Jonathan’s shoulders. “You will not move from the fire. Obey me in this! The cold has taken a toll on your flesh.”
Jonathan blanched as he recalled tales of Arctic explorers losing their extremities. He glanced down, his attention briefly catching on the unfamiliar and too-large clothing he wore before examining the bandages wound around each individual finger. He wanted to lift his leg to examine the injury there, but it seemed a difficult feat. He was weaker than he’d thought without the coat to blame.
“There will be no lasting harm,” the Count assured him, picking up one of the ornate chairs and placing it in front of Jonathan. “You were found soon enough. I presume you recall being thawed with no amount of fondness. But do not fuss with the bandages I have placed, and do not leave the hearth. These shall be your chambers.”
Here! There would be no protection against those hellish facsimiles of women. “But it isn’t safe.”
The Count did not dignify his fretting with a response as he took a seat, lifting Jonathan’s leg and resting it atop his knees. Jonathan couldn’t help but freeze instinctively as the full weight of his regard was cast over him at such close quarters. There was something of the wolf in him still, and he held his breath until the Count’s gaze lowered. A sigh of relief snuck past his lips when delightfully cool fingers wrapped around the skin of his ankle. What he could see of it was a mottled purple, but he was heartened that it didn’t appear to be terribly mangled.
“What a merry chase you led us on tonight. To think that I have shed my blood for you without tasting a drop of your own,” the Count mused as he squeezed the swollen joint gingerly, feeling the bone. “And she says I never love!”
“Blood?” His teeth ground together to muffle a whimper of pain. “You were bitten?”
“I disturbed a hunt and seized their prize, bony though it may be,” the Count replied. “No worthy leader would tolerate such disrespect without answering it. I would have felled him had he disgraced the pack so.”
“Could you not have called them off?”
The Count’s face was equal parts amusement and withering disdain. “They are wolves, my young friend, not hounds. Are all Englishmen so sheltered that they do not understand the difference?”
Jonathan yelped as his ankle was slowly rotated in a loose circle.
“An exquisite creature, the Canis lupus,” he continued. The reverence in his sonorous voice made Jonathan feel unaccountably wistful. “Did you mark the intelligence in their eyes? The graceful instinct in their every movement as they worked both alone and as one? They are predators born of a most dignified bloodlust.”
“And I am prey?” Jonathan asked with a breathless sob of a laugh.
“You made yourself such,” the Count said mildly, feeling along Jonathan’s calf. “I fear that is your nature.”
“Then why did you…” Jonathan hesitated, his entire leg jerking as the Count’s fingers climbed higher to feel around his kneecap. His grip on Jonathan’s limb was firm as he palpated muscle and tendon alike to assess the damage. Jonathan was struck with the realization that he could likely rip his entire leg off with ease.
“Do you believe I desire your death?”
Jonathan blinked.
“I am…I am held captive here,” he replied uncertainly. Was this a trick? A test?
“A reasonable observation,” the Count said with an air of expectancy, offering nothing further as he waited. Jonathan gaped at him.
“I don’t understand. Please. I don’t know what you want of me,” he whispered miserably.
“It was a simple question,” he chided. “You are not yourself this night! There is wine for you just there on the table. Drink.”
Jonathan’s ensuing laughter was a wild thing. “But you are very much yourself! Yes, you have finally revealed your true identity!”
He had lost his mind to speak so. The Count merely slid his hands down to Jonathan’s foot to press along its length, avoiding the bandaged toes. His inspection was executed with the utmost care, but all of this touching was too much. Jonathan suddenly felt as though it might drive him mad if it continued for a moment longer.
“I feel greatly improved,” he lied. “I dearly wish to retire if it’s agreeable.”
He quieted with shameful deference when the Count shushed him. “It is not. You will abide my ministrations after your actions. If you wished to retire, then you should have done so far earlier—and in your own room. Had you not fled my protection like a petulant child, none of this would have come to pass.”
“If you hadn’t frightened me, I wouldn’t have run away,” Jonathan protested as he felt himself flush again. That wasn’t the full truth of it. He sorely wished he hadn’t insisted on his petty disobedience. How bold he’d felt falling asleep in that forbidden wing of the castle, and how naive he felt now.
The Count chuckled. “My friend, there is little which does not frighten you.”
“I am blameless in a place such as this!” he wailed, all composure gone as he began to rave. “God has forsaken anyone who walks these halls. You are inhuman. I suspected as much before and now I know it to be true. You did not command that wolf, you were the wolf. And you murdered a child! Would you deny it, my Lord? I heard its cries!”
If the Count felt anything at all about his crumbling ruse, he did not betray it through expression or word. “It was already dead. Or rather, it would be dead by morning. Mother and babe alike were stricken by illness. I see nothing wrong with hastening fate so that my brides may be fed. It is the order of things in the wild parts of this world. If you cannot tolerate such, you should have remained in England.”
“Fed!” Jonathan gasped, feeling panic seize him once more and blunt the edges of his intellect. He’d known this, but to speak it aloud…
“You would have me starve them?” the Count asked.
“Yes! No. Please, I don’t—they are not—that is to say—”
“Calm yourself, or I will do so for you,” he interrupted, although his tone was gentle. The color of his eyes appeared queerly changed for the briefest of heartbeats. Jonathan subsided, breathing determinedly through his nose until his chest loosened. He belatedly remembered the glass of tokay on the table and reached for it to take a few trembling swallows. His fingers were reassuringly functional despite their clumsiness.
“All living things must eat, and in this regard, the undying are no different,” the Count explained as his lips turned upward in a small smile. “It is a curious thing. But let us speak of other matters lest you swoon. You are lucky! Your ankle is unbroken and I have found no further injury to your leg.”
It was then that Jonathan realized the Count had been stroking the top of his foot as if it were a timid cat curled upon his lap. The examination was complete. This was something else. Something he could make no sense of.
Something that felt very nice indeed.
“When might I walk again?” Jonathan asked timidly.
The movement of the Count’s hand slowed but did not cease. “Soon enough, though there shall be no running for a time.”
“And will I live so long?” The impertinent question left his lips before he could choke it back. He forced a generous mouthful of tokay down as his nerves thrummed.
The Count appeared to approve of his cheek. “Your life has ever been in your own hands. All you must do is heed my word.”
Try as he might, Jonathan found no fault in his host’s claim. He’d been fairly warned and protected most fiercely, first from the maws of his brides and then from those of his beasts. Twice had the Count been gifted the perfect opportunity to eliminate his troublesome solicitor. Twice had he defied the natural order of things he’d claimed reigned supreme here.
He was too drained to make sense of it all.
“I will bind your ankle while you rest. I daresay you're feeling a bit weary.”
“Yes,” Jonathan admitted sheepishly. But this was all wrong. He ought to be kicking and clawing, condemning the monster to Hell and throwing himself in the fire to be free of his influence if that’s what it took. Instead he sat here luxuriating in his care as though it were not putting his very soul at risk.
The Count ignored Jonathan’s yip of surprise as he was scooped up in his arms and transferred to the nearby couch. It must have been dragged in while he was unconscious, for it had not been there this morning. He was grateful to see that it wasn’t the same threadbare one from the west wing.
“Your arm,” he said as he was settled, a pillow slipped beneath his injured ankle.
“What of it?” the Count asked.
“Does it not need tending?”
Laughter echoed through the room as a thick quilt was raised to Jonathan’s chin. “It has already healed, little fool, but it is kind of you to think of me.”
“Already healed,” he marveled groggily. How quickly he tired. “That must be wonderful.”
“It is indeed. Mayhap one day you shall experience such a gift yourself.”
Jonathan would have asked how such a thing could come to pass had he not fallen asleep courtesy of the drugged wine.
_______🥀_______
Count Dracula always enjoyed the boy when he was thus, so very soft and still. It was all the sweeter after he’d courted such misfortune. In truth, he would do well to be angrier over the peril Jonathan had placed himself in, and yet…
It had been uniquely delicious to behold his solicitor prostrated before him in the snow like a crippled deer, those big doe eyes of his wet and terrified. The wolf in him had wanted to take Jonathan then and there, but the man had felt differently. Well, there was time enough. And he had shown a hint of teeth after all, almost challenging him! What unexpected, contrary bliss.
“Think you there will be no consequences for trying my patience so soon?” the Count suddenly asked as he stood guard over Jonathan’s slumber.
“I am merely watching,” came the reply from the safety of a doorway wreathed in shadows.
“And has the claim been sufficiently disproven?”
“She spoke from a place of hunger,” his eldest bride said. “She will come to you on bended knee to beg your forgiveness if you so desire it.”
“I do not,” he realized with a measure of surprise, continuing to watch Jonathan. He possessed the useful ability to sleep like the dead even when he was not assisted by the mistress’s concoctions. Nevertheless, he would take no chances tonight. There were other methods of humane subjugation available, but they left the boy disoriented for days afterward. His constitution remained fragile, and this was not a mind the Count sought to break.
“May I not look at him? Did I not assist with the bath and prepare the wine? I am most contrite, my Lord.”
“You did and you are, but you may not approach,” he growled. “Keep to your own haunts. I will promise him as much.”
He sensed the air shift as she bowed. “None shall enter.” The darkness receded imperceptibly with her departure.
This quarry belonged to him alone.