Chapter Text
There was nothing proceeding the incident that Jonathan felt could have warned him what was coming. Indeed, his short life had already been full of enough unbelievable events that he felt, by all rights, he felt it should reasonably be someone else’s turn. None of this changed the fact that, a few short months after the defeat of Dracula, he had gone to bed with his wife in their home in London and had woken up, quite alone, in a rather less comfortable bed, in a completely different room that was nonetheless quite familiar. He had descended the stairs in a daze, wondering for the second time in his life whether he had totally taken leave of his senses, and found himself in the front room of the Golden Krone Hotel in Bistritz, etched forever into him memory by the terrible events that had followed. He had stared around him, bewildered, and had been at the point of believing that the whole vampiric episode had been some sort of over extended dream when the landlady had approached him, the very image of distracted worry.
“Must you go?” She exclaimed, echoing the memories in his head in every detail. “Oh! Young Herr, Must you go? Do you know what day it is?”
“Walpurgisnacht.” Jonathan answered, almost without thinking about it, and his hostess nodded, with some relief, and started, very earnestly, entreating him to stay in the inn, just a few more nights, young Herr, and then, if your host cannot meet you, why then, you may as well head home. It was earnestly spoken, with evident concern on Jonathan’s behalf, and it was therefore something of a shame that he didn’t hear much of it.
Not a dream, then, Jonathan though. Real. Somehow, all of it, was real.
Right.
-
It wasn’t usual for Father Piotr to be woken so early, by someone banging so enthusiastically on the door of the church. When such things did occur, it normally meant some disaster was unfolding in the village, not that he was about to bee confronted by a wild eyed Englishman, who, to the best of his belief, was a protestant. But life’s little mysteries were what kept if fresh, and considering some of the horrors’ he’d had to deal with over the years this seemed quite manageable.
“What is it that you want?” Trying to project calm at a man who seemed to be about to explode.
“I need the host.” The man told him, apparently quite serious, “And, oh, a large knife, some wood. A crucifix! Several crucifixes, if it can be managed, and-”
“Do you mock us, sir?” Father Piotr interrupted, “Do you believe that I can hand out such holy things to strangers who do not share our faith?”
The Englishman seemed, abruptly, to come back to himself, eyes focusing on Father Piotr properly for the first time. “I’m going up to the castle.” He told him, voice eerily calm, as though that explained everything. Father Piotr blinked.
“I have holy oil, too, if that’s any help?”
-
It was a strange sight that greeted the passengers on the coach that morning. They had heard, through rumour, that some poor soul had been tricked up to the ancient castle that lurked up the mountains like a plague. They expected this poor stranger to be naive, foolish, or perhaps scornful of local ‘superstition’. They were not expecting a manic, wild eyed stranger who seemed to be trying to squeeze a small arsenal into his travelling case.
“You have enough garlic?” Madam Krone asked, flitting about anxiously. “I can get more in, from my neighbour Floriu. And you have enough of the water? I am sure there is time to bless a little more, if the coach can just be compelled to wait, and-”
She was interrupted by her husband, bustling up, armed with a crossbow which he promptly passed over, along with a thick sheaf of arrows. “I do not know if they will be much good.” Master Krone said, with a sad shake of his head, “But here is a knife, the best steel I can spare.”
It was indeed a good knife. A child could have used it for a sword.
“This might be enough.” The Englishman replied, somehow forcing the case closed on top of a truly enormous assortment of stuff. “And if it isn’t, well. You have the letter for my wife?”
Mrs Krone looked like to burst into tears. “I will send it.” She told him. “Lord bled you, sir. Here.” She took off her own crucifix, passing it to the man, who took it solemnly, and with great reverence put it around his own neck. “You as a brave man, Young Herr. I shall pray for you.”
And with an apparently fond farewell, the young man thrust his case up to the top of the carriage and climbed aboard.
There was a moment of silence amongst the other passengers. Eventually, the coachman broke it. “So, you are going up to the castle, then? You are absolutely sure?”
“Yes.” The young madman replied, a hard shine to his eyes. The coachman considered this.
“Alright.” He said, eventually.
-
The journey was both similar and unfamiliar, to Jonathan. It was the effect of his knowledge of the true situation, he knew, but he had not thought the carriage ride across the mountains had been quite as cheerful as this. The other passengers seemed more keen to talk to him than he remembered, and some of the men were almost enthusiastic about passing along crossbow advice. Perhaps that was all the difference.
Though, he did think that last time the coach had arrived early, in an effort to avoid the Count, whereas on this trip they had arrived precisely on time, to find the great black coach waiting for them. But perhaps it was Jonathan’s memory that was failing. After all, an awful lot had happened on this trip.
There were a lot of concerned looks as Jonathan gathered himself together, grimly patting his pockets, checking the crucifix around his neck and the knife on his belt. The coachman nodded at him, sombre, and wished him the best of luck with a heavy, significant look. The Count was waiting, heavily hooded and wrapped in a deep cloak, and it took everything Jonathan had to look at the monster without flinching. For Mina, he told himself. For Lucy, and Arthur, and everyone who had ever fallen before this beast.
The Count held out a hand to help Jonathan up to the coach, and he was proud that he took it without flinching.
Dracula hoisted Jonathan’s trunk onto the roof with evident ease but a faint air of surprise. “You travel heavily, Mr Harker.” Dracula commented. Despite himself, Jonathan smiled.
“I believe in being prepared.” He said.
-
How Jonathan managed to get through supper, he would never know. It was perhaps to his benefit that the Count, for all his horrifying nature, had always, somehow, been easy to talk to. It also helped that the vampire seemed content to hold most of the conversation himself, perhaps finding novelty in speaking with someone new. As it was, Jonathan somehow made it through supper, giving somewhat coherent responses where appropriate and putting food in his mouth without tasting it.
Eventually dawn started to break over the horizon and, inevitably, the Count declared that it was time to retire for the day, and with some relief Jonathan retreated into his room, and resisted the urge to barricade the door. It would do no good, he knew, and there were better defences, and better moments to use them. As the reassuring sunlight flooded the room, Jonathan opened his trunk and considered, with some grim relish, the options presented to him by its contents.
Right then.
-
Jonathan was tired the next evening, having gotten very little sleep, but was fairly pleased with his efforts the previous day. He met the Count over an evening meal with some semblance of control over revisiting the days of his nightmares.
This evening, the Count wanted to talk about business, and the house he was purchasing in England. Jonathan had his answers prepared.
“Well, as you can see, Count, I wish it was a simple business to buy a house in England, I really do.” Jonathan explained, apologetically. “But there’s a lot to sort out first, many forms that must be filled in.” Jonathan shrugged, apologetic, as he spread papers across the table, some of which he had spent much of the previous day forging. “There’s a lot of permits, you understand, and you can’t even begin to consider moving before we get them all sorted out.” Jonathan Smiled, sunnily, and managed not quail against the sharp look the Count gave, eyes bloody hard.
“Could not you have sorted this out in England?” The vampire said, haughtily. “Why bring all this,” He paused, distastefully “paperwork, here to bother me?”
“Well, I would if I could have, Sir, I really would.” Jonathan replied, channelling his best impression of a helpful but overworked assistant. “But there are so many unknowns, you see. For starters, these boxes you want to import? Well, before we can even begin to consider loading them up onto a ship they must be opened and inspected, both at the port of departure and at the port of arrival, and full documentation of the contents must be made for perusal of the officials. Now, if you’ll just look at this paper here…”
Jonathan was rather impressed, both at his own daring and at the Count’s mask of restraint. He managed to last most of the night caught up in a made up web of Byzantine bureaucracy before the Count’s temper finally snapped and he sent Jonathan back to his rooms, anger flaring in his eyes like a bloody flame.
Once there, Jonathan carefully arranged some of the contents of his trunk, and, once fully prepared, fetched out his shaving razor. I remember how this went, he thought, staring at himself in the mirror. All I have to do is hold my razor, just so, and then, carefully, nick the skin of my cheek like so-
There was a noise behind him, reminiscent of someone running into a solid wall, and a furious hiss. Jonathan span around, and tried to hide his disappointment when he found that the Count was merely leaning against the opposite wall.
“Count!” He exclaimed, with forced cheerfulness. “What brings you here?”
“Friend Harker.” The Count said, completely ignoring the question. “Do you normally keep your room strewn with garlic?”
“Oh, yes.” Jonathan told him, with studied cheerfulness. “My wife insists, you see. She’s adamant they keep pests away.”
“Pests?” The Count asked, watching Jonathan carefully.
“She insists they keep out the moths.” Jonathan told him.
“Moths.” Dracula said. He was staring at the wall next to him. Jonathan followed his gaze.
“I see you’ve found my whittling project.” Jonathan said, starting to feel quite manic. “Though I haven’t made much progress yet, as you can see.”
“Indeed not.” The vampire replied, cautiously. “Friend Harker, you would oblige me by not leaving stakes of wood lying around my home.”
Jonathan gave him a sharp smile. “I’ll see what I can do.” He promised.
-
It was a beautiful day in Whitby, and two women had taken the opportunity to have a walk along the cliffs. Of the pair, one seemed to be almost vibrating with happy excitement, but was clearly restraining herself for the benefit of her friend, who was in a state of distracted worry.
“I don’t think anything bad had happened to Jonathan.” The darker of the two women was saying, in a tone that suggested that she didn’t really believe this. “Not truly bad, in any case, but I fear he is not entirely well. Mr Hawkins sent word that Jonathan wrote to tell him, quite abruptly, that the business with the foreign Gentleman was cancelled, just like that, quite without explanation, and suggested they sell Carfax Abbey to Lord Ravenscar instead, can you believe it?”
Her companion made the non-committal noise of someone who neither knows nor cares about the business of selling properties, but nonetheless does not want to discourage the speaker, and patted her friend’s hand in a consoling way.
“And this last letter,” The woman waved the offending epistle, “I mean, look at this: In this first paragraph he writes most earnestly about loving me and missing me every day and how he looks forwardto returning and planning the wedding, which is all very well, but then he goes on to say that all is well, quite well, there is nothing to worry about at all, and on no account am I to come after him. Have you ever heard anything so likely to create concern?”
“I am sure he did not mean to worry you so, Mina.” Her friend said, attempting to sooth her ragged nerves.
“There’s some wild speech in this,” Mina carried on, with an air of distracted worry, only seeming to half hear her friend. “I know Jonathan, and I know well he cannot be mad, but I am not at all sure he is quite well.”
“Of course he is not mad.” Her friend said in a soothing tone. Privately, she thought Jonathan Harker must have been at least a little mad, to leave such a fiance as her friend Mina to hare off halfway across Europe, no matter how important the errand.
“I mean, look at this.” Mina poked at the end of the letter. “He says that should he not return, I should seek out a Mr Abraham Van Helsing, whomever that may be, and he signs off by wishing you well, Lucy, and congratulates you on your engagement to Lord Arthur Godalming of all things – Lucy? Lucy, whatever is the matter?”