Reckoning (2 page)

Journal of
Quincey Harker

O
XFORD
U
NIVERSITY

31ST
O
CTOBER 1908

What a charmed life I have led here at Oxford—not least for the mortal pleasures I have encountered. The appeal of warm, yielding flesh is undeniable—as is the thrill of seduction. But having witnessed the more craven pleasures enjoyed by the initiated at Castle Dracula last summer . . . knowing what is to come . . . I fear that university life may now feel rather tame.

I long for my own initiation—to feel the primal power that I’m told lies dormant in my blood. My body and soul will then awaken to their full vampiric glory, and I shall take my place, alongside Father, as a prince among my kind. A descendant of Dracula himself.

Before I left Transylvania, I asked again when my initiation
would be, but Father only repeated that it would come when I was ready. Surely it must be soon! Watching is no longer enough. I want to enjoy the full privileges of my birthright.

Meanwhile I must concern myself with trivialities, like the letter that arrived from Father this morning. He has asked me to greet a distant cousin of mine who is arriving in Oxford for a few days next week to do research at the Bodleian Library. I have never heard of her—she has not attended any of the Saint Andrew’s Eve festivities at the castle—and I wonder if she is even one of us. But Father asked me to be polite and show her the sights, so I suppose I’d better.

I only hope she does not turn out to be one of those hearty, boring bluestocking types.

5TH NOVEMBER 1908

Rebecca is certainly no bluestocking. . . .

When the train arrived at midnight, the auburn-haired beauty who alighted took my breath away.

She turned to look at me. “Quincey Harker?” she asked, her voice rich and melodic.

I nodded, feeling foolishly shy, and could not help but stare as the movement of air from the departing train caused her fur coat to billow open and expose the silk-covered curve of her hips.

“Quincey . . . How wonderful to meet you at last.” She smiled, holding a slender gloved hand out to me.

“The pleasure is mine,” I answered a little hoarsely, taking her hand in my own. I could see she was well assured of her own allure and knew how she stirred me.

“I suppose you know nothing about me,” she said with a teasing smile as she handed me her case.

“No,” I replied apologetically.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “There is plenty of time for us to get to know each other. . . .” She looked around the station. “Now, where are you taking me?”

I was somewhat put off my stride, being used to dominating most social situations. “I—I booked you into the Randolph Hotel,” I stammered. “I thought we’d take a taxi there.”

“Oh, must we?” she said. “I much prefer to walk. I find the night air so refreshing.” She inhaled deeply and then, giving a contented sigh, turned toward the exit.

I heard the silk of her stockings swish as she moved. “We can walk if you like—it’s not far,” I said.

“Oh, good.” She smiled and handed me her other bag.

My small talk as we made our way to the hotel was, I’m sure, rather inane. I could not take my eyes off her. Though I tried my best to be charming, I was relieved when we reached our destination.

“Thank you, Quincey,” she said as we made our way into
the foyer. “I presume you’ve made a reservation in my name?”

I nodded and then informed reception of her arrival. The bellboy hurried over to collect Rebecca’s luggage and show her to her room.

She turned to me with a languid smile. “Come up with me,” she invited. “Keep me company while I settle in. I hate that desolate feeling one encounters when first entering an unfamiliar room—especially when alone.”

I could tell she knew I would agree without hesitation.

After tipping the bellboy, I sat down to wait in the parlour of Rebecca’s suite while she unpacked in a bedroom leading off it.

Her presence agitated me, but not unpleasurably so. . . . I felt a curious urge to be out in the night, breathing the sharp air and striding through the shadowed streets.

Rebecca came back into the parlour. My throat tightened as I saw she had changed into a silken lilac gown that betrayed every curve of her body beneath it.

I watched silently as she bent to take a cigarette from the silver box on the table, pushing away the lock of auburn hair that fell across her face. She pressed the cigarette into a long platinum holder and lit it.

I heard the whisper of her robe against the velvet upholstery as she sank down onto a plump green sofa. The soft sound thrilled me.

“Your father tells me you’re a bright young man,” she commented, looking up at me. She patted the empty space next to her.

Heart pounding, I walked slowly across the room and sat next to her. She smelled exquisite. “I suppose I am,” I answered. “The work here isn’t difficult. I’m told I shall graduate with honours next summer. Do you know my father well?”

“Not very well,” Rebecca replied, “but he was eager we should meet while we were both in England.”

“Oh?” I was intrigued. “Where do you usually live?”

“Nowhere for long. I tend to keep on the move.” Rebecca turned and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray behind the sofa. Her movement revealed the smooth outline of her breasts and belly, pressing against the silk of her gown. My mouth went dry.

She turned back to see me staring at her and gave me a gratified smile. “I think we shall have fun together, Quincey Harker,” she said.

Anticipation caused my heart to race, my skin to tingle. Did Rebecca plan seduction?

“But for now . . .” she added, a trace of apology in her tone, “I must rest.”

Disappointment coursed through me. “Of course,” I replied politely, and immediately got to my feet.

Rebecca’s smooth fingers touched mine. They felt chilled,
like highly polished marble. “You’ll come again tomorrow evening?” she asked. “I shall be waiting for you, Quincey. . . .”

Her tone was anything but familial. I felt my body tighten with desire. “Yes,” I replied.

I saw something glint within the depths of Rebecca’s cool green eyes. A fiery glow I had seen before—at the castle on Saint Andrew’s Eve.

A delicious suspicion began to stir in my mind. The time of my initiation had finally arrived.

With reluctance, I broke my gaze away from hers and strode toward the door.

7TH
N
OVEMBER 1908

Yesterday I celebrated my twenty-first birthday and, in the depths of night, my true coming of age.

I had made my excuses to the university crowd so that I could spend the evening with Rebecca as promised. And from the way we had left things the day before, I half hoped, half expected that Rebecca would lead me straight to her bed.

To my surprise, she suggested we leave the sensual haven of her hotel room to venture out for a walk instead. Swallowing my frustration, I agreed.

We wandered, arm in arm, along the dark, cobbled
streets. The touch of her seemed to impart some dark energy, infusing my flesh, heightening its awareness.

“How quiet and empty the town seems,” I breathed.

Rebecca gave a low laugh. “Appearances can be deceptive, Quincey.” She tightened her grip on my arm. “Behind all those college walls are warm, slumbering bodies, softly breathing, gently pulsing with fresh, sweet blood.” She gave a little shiver and licked her lips. I could sense that she was nearly as aroused as I was by her words.

I felt a thrust of overwhelming longing for her. I pulled her fiercely against me. For a few brief moments, she yielded to my embrace—and then she gently pushed me away.

“Soon . . .” she whispered. “Very soon . . .”

She took my arm and started walking once more, steering me across the street toward the entrance of the churchyard opposite. I looked at her, confused, as she led me through the gate. I felt an instinctive loathing at the sight of the church towering in the darkness above us and wondered why Rebecca had brought me here.

Silently she led me between the elms, among the graves, and eventually stopped beside a low stone plinth. She reclined upon it, curling and stretching like a cat. She began to stroke the gravestone, and I watched as her long fingers traced the name inscribed there.

“This is the grave of a murderer,” she told me. “He killed his wife, yet was not condemned for it, because she had been
unfaithful to him. He lived out his years unjudged by his peers, but once he died, his soul received its just reward. Come. Touch. Can you feel the suffering contained within?”

I bent to run my fingers across the mossed and weathered stone. They prickled at the feel of its surface and a new, quite thrilling sensation began to pulsate through my veins.

“Is it not delightful to find such evil lurking amid godliness?” Rebecca murmured. She closed her eyes and leaned back on the stone, her coat falling open to reveal the dove grey satin dress she wore beneath.

I cannot say what excited me most, the sight of Rebecca’s satin-clad body, shining silver in the moonlight—or the energy that my body seemed to draw from the grave she lay upon.

Rebecca slid her hands under my coat and pulled me down to her. She raked her silver-lacquered nails into my back. The violent tearing against my flesh only heightened my passion. I kissed her fiercely and she responded with equal force, pressing her open mouth against mine.

And then, I felt her kisses slide away from my mouth. I shuddered in anticipation. With utter rapture, I saw her lips part to reveal two beautifully pointed white fangs. She rolled me over and leaned down over me, her long hair cascading onto my chest. I felt her mouth upon my throat—and then gasped as two needle-sharp points gripped my throat and pierced my flesh, bearing down hard, stretching
the surrounding skin until I felt it might split. But I didn’t care. Pleasure and pain had become one. Rebecca drank and drank, the beating of my heart and her drawing of my blood in perfect, rhythmic unison.

I felt my heart flicker . . . and then stop.

Darkness closed around me.

Journal of
Quincey Harker

7
TH
N
OVEMBER (CONTINUED)

My next awareness was of a slow, languorous awakening. I had no notion of whether seconds, minutes, or even hours had passed. I opened my eyes to see the moon still high in the sky. Rebecca was gazing down at me, her lips ruby red, glistening with my own blood.

“So . . . Quincey Harker . . .” she breathed. “It is done.”

I inhaled a deep lungful of the cold night air, feeling a surge of energy that seemed to possess my very being. This time it was I who pulled Rebecca to me.

The reddish glow began to return to her beautiful eyes. “I’m so glad it was I who was chosen to awaken you,” she murmured, tracing a fingernail over my chest.

A new and desperate craving pierced me. The strange fascination I had always felt for blood turned into a wild
desire. “It is I who am fortunate,” I told her, capturing her hand in mine to kiss its cool palm. “You have taught me well. But I have still to give my own bloody kiss . . .” I ventured softly. “Who is it that shall be first?”

Rebecca’s eyes now flamed with reignited passion. “You start,” she began, “with me.”

I lowered my head toward her soft, exposed throat. She gave a groan of pleasure at the touch of my tongue as I traced its tip along her pearl-white flesh. I felt the pulsing within and became aware of a curious tingling sensation in my gums. There was a moment of pain. And then, against the flesh of my lower lip, I felt my incisors lengthen into razor-sharp fangs.

Heady with anticipation now, reeling with desire, I drew my lips back over the smooth new enamel—and then I pressed down, my fangs piercing Rebecca’s skin like needles through satin.

The first metallic spurt of her blood gushed into my mouth. I gagged from the force of its flow but quickly gauged her heart’s rhythm and began to swallow with each pulse.

The taste of it was beyond all pleasure. My tongue quivered under its bittersweet tang. Rebecca gasped ecstatically in my arms. Only when I felt her growing limp did I stop, fearful of taking more than she could give. I looked down at her face. Her eyes seemed glazed, and I feared for a moment
I had harmed her—but then she grasped my head to draw my mouth to hers and kissed away the blood that smeared my lips.

“Oh, Quincey . . .” she murmured between kisses. “I envy the mortal who receives your kiss on Saint Andrew’s Eve!”

I started at her words, still immersed in what we had just shared. “I need no mortal,” I whispered into her hair. “Only you.”

She gazed earnestly into my eyes. “Darling. My blood, while enticing, is not enough. Only mortal blood can complete the transformation I have begun—bring you your full birthright of power.”

“I shall do without it!” I exclaimed recklessly.

Eyes wide, Rebecca shook her head and laughed. “Quincey, please . . . Wait until Saint Andrew’s Eve. You’ll feel differently then. You are Dracula’s heir! How can you not claim your birthright?”

I sighed and pulled her to me. “Saint Andrew’s Eve is weeks away,” I told her. “Until then, I have you. . . .”

“Of course you do, darling,” she replied, running a gentle finger along my cheek.

As we walked back to her hotel to escape the fast-approaching dawn, I revelled in the euphoria Rebecca had awoken in my body, the sensation of strength that infused my heart with a wild joy.

On reaching the hotel entrance, Rebecca reached up and
lightly kissed my lips. I looked down into her face in surprise. Was I not invited in?

“It has been a momentous night, my darling,” she said gently. “You need to rest—and you will do so better in your own bed.” She gave a knowing little grin.

I pulled her against me and kissed her hard on the lips. “No doubt you are right,” I replied. “I shall return tonight.”

“Tonight . . .” she repeated. And then she disappeared into the hotel.

I made my way back here, to my lodgings, and though I shall count the hours until I am back with Rebecca, I am glad of the opportunity to record these momentous events while they are still fresh in my mind.

How did I ever think myself alive before this?

L
ATER

When I returned to her hotel, Rebecca was gone. I was told by the desk clerk that she’d checked out in a great hurry, just minutes after arriving back at the hotel before dawn. The clerk grew pale at the fury that must have shown on my face as I ripped open the cream envelope she had left for me. I snatched out the folded sheet of paper within and read its brief contents.

Damn her! And damn me, for thinking she was anything but a whore, bought and paid for by my family. I knew, of course, that she had been sent to me, that our encounter had had a purpose beyond intimacy—but I had not taken her for the heartless wench she had now proved herself to be. How dare she abandon me just minutes after what we had shared!

Fondness.

No, Rebecca. I don’t feel fondness.

I feel betrayal and rage.

If I knew where you had gone, I would pursue you and drain you dry for leaving me with that cold, polite little note.

So what now? Saint Andrew’s Eve cannot come too soon. As far as I am concerned, Rebecca can turn to dust. I shall throw myself into the festivities at Castle Dracula with relish and claim my birthright.

What power will I feel then, when my transformation is complete?

29TH
N
OVEMBER 1908

I have arrived home.

My body is weary after my long journey to Castle Dracula, but my mind races with anticipation of what is to come.

These past three weeks have been hard, but I have resisted my newfound craving for blood. It has always been the family’s wish that I should come into my full power and birthright on Saint Andrew’s Eve—the night when all evil in the world is at its most potent. And tonight that wish shall be fulfilled.

Oh, how I shall feast!

No doubt Father has already acquired suitable prey for me, but the stinging memory of Rebecca has driven me to make my own choice for this occasion.

And I have chosen well, I think: a Frenchwoman I met on the train from Paris to Munich. Her name is Collette. She is beautiful, naturally, and intent on using this to her full advantage. I can tell that she believes she has quite captivated me, the foolish little gold digger. She was delighted at the invitation to accompany me here—and was willing to give all, there and then, in our railway carriage. But I have, of course, saved her for tonight. She is in her room now, dressing for dinner.

I had thought Father and Mother might be shocked at my
bringing someone home. But if so, they hid it well when they saw me helping Collette from the carriage that brought us from the station earlier this evening.

“Quincey . . .” Father stretched out his hand to shake mine. “Rebecca tells me she enjoyed meeting you,” he added immediately.

My heart lurched at the mention of her name, and so unexpectedly soon. I forced myself to give a casual shrug. “Is she here for the celebrations?” I asked.

Father shook his head. “I thought it best not.” He held my gaze for a moment. “She has played her part.”

I felt frustration flare in my chest and clenched my fists.

Mother’s hand brushed my mine gently. “I see you have brought your own guest, Quincey! Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Her eyes glittered approvingly as she cast her gaze over Collette’s shapely figure.

I turned to Collette—who was glancing up at the impressive walls of the castle, her eyes sparkling with avaricious interest—and made the introductions.

“You are very welcome here, my dear,” Mother crooned to my unsuspecting prey. “I hope Quincey told you tonight is a very special occasion?”

“Oh yes—some sort of anniversary, I understand. I hope I’m not imposing,” Collette replied, somewhat unconvincingly.

“Of course not, my dear,” Mother assured her smoothly. “We like fresh blood in the place.” She took hold of
Collette’s arm, smiled at me, and then led Collette into the castle. The torches around the structure, already lit, sent a red glow rippling over the cobbled courtyard as they passed through it.

Father squeezed my shoulder. “Good to have you home, Quincey. I have been looking forward to this night since the day you came into this world. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

“No, Father, I won’t,” I assured him. “Now if you will excuse me, I shall go and prepare for the celebrations.”

I came up here to my room and found it little changed.

But how changed
I
am!

I can hear hooves in the courtyard. Guests are beginning to arrive. I must go down and help Father greet them.

30TH
N
OVEMBER 1908

It is not yet dawn, but I am exhausted. Before I allow myself to sleep, however, I am determined to record every detail of this momentous night. . . .

“What an extraordinary place!” Collette whispered as we took our places at table in the Great Hall. She looked somewhat taken aback to find herself amid such opulence and among so many other guests.

And her unease grew, of course, once the meal was over. . . .

Mother graciously led the revellers along the corridor to the drawing room. The men began to throw aside their jackets and unknot their ties; women cast off their shawls and stoles to reveal low-cut gowns, exposing their creamy flesh. Little by little, the formal facade kept up throughout dinner began to fall away. Couples and threesomes sprawled upon the furniture in the most relaxed and informal manner, their eyes burning brighter as their pupils widened with desire, their mouths curved into secretive smiles.

Collette clutched my arm. “Quincey . . . What is happening?” she whispered uncertainly.

“They’re just making themselves more comfortable for the entertainment to come,” I explained, gently drawing her forward. I had caught sight of someone I wanted to speak with. “Aunt Rosemary!” I called across the room. “How good to see you.” I’d had no opportunity to greet Rosemary before dinner—she’d arrived at table late and had then been placed at the opposite end. I crossed the rug toward her now, Collette still at my side.

Rosemary held out her arms. “Hello, my handsome boy,” she said fondly.

Smiling at her words, I went into her embrace. “Are you quite well?” I asked her.

But before Rosemary could reply, Collette tugged anxiously at my arm. “Everyone is looking at me, Quincey,” she
said. “Why do they seem so . . .” Collette fell silent as she watched the transformations taking place around her.

I glanced at Father, standing beside Mother before the great fireplace. Their eyes now glittered as red as the ruby wine in their crystal goblets. I sensed the onlookers lean forward, their expectancy infusing the room with excitement.

“To Quincey!” Father toasted, holding up his glass to me. He gave a proud smile, his still-perfect white fangs now fully descended.

Beside me, Collette gasped. I felt her nails dig into my arm as the rest of the room followed my father’s example. Alarm had seized her. “Please, I’d—I’d like to go back to my room,” she begged.

“Collette, darling, there is nothing to concern yourself about,” I replied softly. “They’re just interested in you, that’s all. They enjoy new company. You wouldn’t deprive them.” I lifted her chin so that she stared up into my eyes. “Look at me, sweet one . . .” I crooned. I drew her into my gaze, mesmerising her. Soon I felt her relax against me.

“That’s better,” I whispered.

I ran my fingers up her slim, elegant arms and then began to stroke the nape of her neck. She shivered, exhaling deeply. I felt her breath penetrate the thin white material of my shirt. The warm smell of her blood was affecting me. I felt my hunger rise. I bent my face toward hers and she pressed against me, trembling, her mouth opening—inviting my kiss.
“Do you see why I didn’t take you in the railway carriage?” I murmured. “This will be so much better.”

“Oh yes, Quincey . . .” she gasped.

I flicked my gaze once more to Father and Mother and saw them watching proudly from the fireplace. In a moment I would be like them—fully vampire. My heart swelled. And then I lowered my mouth to Collette’s.

She grasped me with both hands, pulling me wantonly against her. I traced a line of kisses along her jaw and down her throat, feeling for the richest vein with the tip of my tongue. She arched her neck, groaning with desire, oblivious now to our audience. I felt the familiar tingling in my mouth as my fangs descended and sharpened. My own blood pounded in my ears—and then . . . I pressed the needle-sharp points in hard, shuddering with pleasure as I felt them puncture the soft, warm flesh. Blood flooded into my mouth, bathing my tongue, sending me heady. Mortal blood was like nothing I had ever tasted. Like the finest wine, it radiated through me, suffusing me with life.

Collette sighed, little mews of pleasure-pain. From somewhere beyond, I heard cheering and shouting.

I drank until Collette fell limp and gasping in my arms. Mindful that I should not continue until her heart stopped beating, I let her slip to the floor and wiped my mouth.

Father crossed the room and gripped my shoulders, then lifted my arm and turned me slowly around for the audience, as though I were a newly crowned champion. “On this, the
most glorious of nights, my firstborn son has embarked on his destiny!” he announced. “We shall rule, as was intended, again!”

The roar of approval in the room grew almost deafening.

I looked down at Collette, lying there at my feet. She was still gasping, her eyes glazed. The world around me seemed suddenly fragile, while I had become mighty. A servant came to take Collette away. She would be thrown to the wolves.

Father then signalled for silence and the guests obediently obliged. “We must be patient now, my friends,” he ordered. “Quincey has come into his power—but for destiny to be fully fulfilled, we must wait for his betrothed to reach womanhood.”