The Count

"That was in my great grandfather's day too," the count said. "That visit has become something of a family legend in the years since; I sometimes wonder what might have happened if Stoker had been allowed to write his book-that is, if he'd been able to. Ah, but I'm talking business again-forgive me."

"Should we talk pleasure instead?"

"I find that with you, everything is a pleasure. But I see you've finished eating and you must be exhausted from your trip; if you like, Raeford will show you to your room, and we can continue this discussion-any discussion-tomorrow."

Coming from anyone else Aubrey would have felt like she was being brushed off, but the count seemed so sincere that cynical thoughts wilted in his presence. Besides, she thought, looking around at the tumbledown ruins of the castle-it's not like he could possibly have anything else to do at this time of night?

As promised, her room was indeed interchangeable with those in any number of high-end European hotels, situated on one lower level of the castle-nearest the cliff face, on the side opposite the road. Aubrey was a little disappointed to find it so chic, but at least the antique door, a huge, heavy, iron-banded thing that almost defied its own hinges to keep it upright, was intact.

"Most of the hotel staff have gone home during the master's visit," Raeford told her. "But you can call me on my private line-day or night-which you'll find on the courtesy card on the nightstand."

He stood in the shadow of the doorway, as if it would be intrusive to even look into the place where she'd be sleeping, despite the fact that she hadn't yet stepped foot in herself. "Thank you," Aubrey said. "For everything."

Before she could turn, Raeford surprised her by asking, "Do you sleepwalk?"

Freezing with her hand on the doorknob, Aubrey said, "No...why?"

"You may: It's a curious quality of the castle. Many of our guests, even those who have never experienced such things, find that they develop a bit of a sleepwalking problem while staying here."

"You're joking."

"I never joke," Raeford said. "Nobody else is staying here, but I would advise the precaution of keeping your door locked-in case you're suddenly seized by the spirit of the place to wander in the night, like so many before you." And with that he left, leaving Aubrey bewildered.

She DID lock the door-not because she expected to sleepwalk, but because she was alone and miles from anywhere, with nobody but two strange men, and she was no fool. Not that she could imagine the count doing anything untoward, now that she'd met him; anything that impolite would probably kill him. She pictured his body suddenly crumbling to dust in the light of her offense. Even Raeford, oddball that he was, was surely harmless.

Even so, she clicked the lock, and, just to be sure, moved a small dresser, one heavy enough that she'd be woken by its moving, in front of the door-you never know who has keys to what when you're sleeping in a new place.

None of the furniture was antique, but it was comfortable, and it included a writing desk that looked like it had been made out of about an acre of ash wood. She wanted desperately to write more, just to relieve the itch of letting her new book go ignored for so long; there was a bit from the old pastor's vampire lore that had been scrambling around the back of her brain for a while and that she wanted to be sure to transcribe:

"It was believed that male vampires have a great desire for women, so a vampire will return to have intercourse with his wife, or with a woman he was attracted to in life. Indeed, in one recorded case, a widow tried to blame her pregnancy on her late husband, who had supposedly become a vampire, and there were cases of men pretending to be vampires in order to reach the women they desired.

"Some traditions specify signs by which the children of a vampire can be recognized, such as the lack of a shadow, or having no fingernails, and a deep mark on the lower back, like a place a tail might have been removed, though no such tails apparently ever grew. A pronounced nose was often a sign, as were larger than normal ears, teeth or eyes.

"The union of a living woman and a vampire was called Dhampir, meaning 'tooth drinker,' a name perhaps more applicable to the vampire himself..."

But no amount of dedication to her work could ward off sleep forever, and almost as soon as her body hit the sheets she drifted into a dreamless and seemingly undisturbed slumber.

***

Waking the next morning-the sunlight that hit the windows overlooking the cliffs outside seemed to almost pulse with alien yellow life as soon as her eyes were open-Aubrey was briefly alarmed.

Although she'd gone to sleep beneath the downy embrace of a hotel comforter, she was now lying on top of the blankets and bedsheets. There was also, upon inspection, dirt on her covers, and between her toes, deep black dirt that she instantly associated with the wilderness surrounding the castle and the road that led to it.

For one surreal, oddly embarrassed moment, she remembered Raeford's warning about sleepwalking. But upon rising she saw that the dresser was still keeping its sentinel watch by the door-she couldn't possibly have moved that out of the way and then back into place without waking up.

She must have just slept restlessly, and before going to bed tracked some mess in and not noticed, thanks to her sleep-deprived state. Rising, she stepped into the luxurious bathroom and let the hot water rinse away the telltale dirt.

Although she'd slept soundly, she also felt sore all over somehow, and spent extra time under the faucet. Standing at an antique mirror, she thought she looked pallid, and she felt weak-not tired, as she had after the flight, but depleted in some unplaceable but elemental way.

But she had to shake it off-today was important. Outside her door, on a silver tray, a light breakfast waited; everything but the hearth-warmed coffee was cold, but pleasing, and she ate as voraciously as she had last night. A single voice message waited on her phone-Raeford. The count, he said, had been called away on business again, but he would return by evening to keep their engagement.

In the meantime, Aubrey was encouraged to go anywhere in the castle she wished; none of the museum staff were on duty today, but phone numbers for several of them were available, and they had instructions to wait for any call from her and answer any questions she had about the castle, the region, or the family. Several other local historians were on-call for her as well. The kitchen staff were being driven back in to prepare a formal dinner at noon.

And with that, she was on her own.

The thrill of the moment caught up with Aubrey all at once: The entirety of Dracula family history and legend was at her fingertips, and she had a golden ticket to explore every hidden crevice of it. It was of course a disappointment that the count wasn't here himself for this part-but he'd be back in due time, she was certain. Besides, the opportunity to explore Castle Dracula in solitude was, presumably, one that had not been afforded to an outsider in generations-possibly ever.

As promised, most of the estate was now a museum, with Dracula family relics ensconced in glass cases and docent displays, accompanied by metropolitan lighting; most of the explanatory text was translated into both English and French, and while most of what was here was at best prosaic, the curators had managed to preserve some of what she imagined to be the character of the castle in its heyday.

The original castle near Borgo Pass dated to the earliest years of the 13th century, she knew, built by the Knights of the Teutonic Order; but that was a wooden palisade, erected somewhat in haste to guard against the expansion of the Ottomans. When Louis I of Hungary ordered a new castle built, it wasn't finished until the late 14th century, and indeed the Ottomans tried and failed to seize the castle in 1442, and again in 1520, and this of course is where the Dracula family name rose to prominence, with the old princes who led the charge against the invaders in those bloody medieval years.

One legend had it that the Dracula family line was so soaked in Turkish blood that to this day newborns were born with red hands, still scarlet from the gruesome battlefield work of generations past, and that their hands would never be washed clean until the Judgment Day. Some said that the Dracula name was an honorific, alluding to the old chivalrous Order of the Dragon, but others insisted it was in fact a name for the devil...

Some war relics remained in the castle collection, but what most interested Aubrey were the everyday artifacts: the tapestries, the sconces, the clothes-at the same time rough but elegant, as if caught between the grandeur of the castle and the wildness of the surroundings.

The castle had been rebuilt and redesigned many times over the centuries, sometimes not always for the better; but some of the oldest features, the brickwork, the spires, the turrets, the gothic arched windows and doorways, still existed. Much was in ruins, but in truth Aubrey preferred it that way; the restored, tourism-friendly wings were pleasant enough, but they did not represent the world she imagined Bram Stoker had come here to discover during his mysterious pilgrimage over a century ago.

The tumbledown parts of the fortress, the battlements, the old stones that stood in place for one medieval siege after another and never moved an inch-these things, she imagined, gave her a glimpse of what Raeford had meant when he talked about being an old country, in a way that a place like America would never be.

It was in the gardens that she encountered Raeford himself, reading a newspaper (in Hungarian, she saw) and taking a drink just after noon in what she suspected was a regular if not daily ritual for him. Aubrey hesitated to approach, imagining that she might inadvertently sneak up and scare him in the oldest of horror cliches, but he headed that off by folding his newspaper, smiling at her, and saying, "I trust that you're enjoying yourself this morning?"

"Am I ever!" Aubrey said, even more enthusiastically than she expected. He sat at a little cafe table, one that was entirely alone but not out of place among the elder trees and mossy walkways. A shallow pond sat nearby, its waters dark and murky, as if they, like the castle, had remained undisturbed for thus long. "It's so beautiful here," she said. Then, "No, beautiful isn't the word-lots of places are beautiful, I've seen beautiful places before. This place has something I've never encountered anywhere else."

"I'm sure you'll find the word for it," Raeford said. "I don't know if I ever mentioned it, but I'm quite a fan of your books. I don't read much English these days, but a friend of a friend recommended Grimm House, and I must admit I was taken."

"That's kind of you to say," said Aubrey. "You should have asked for me to sign it at the airport, I'd have been happy to-I still am."

"But that would be a personal matter, and I was attending the master's business," Raeford said. "I'm usually on the master's business-another bit of the family inheritance. My grandfather died in the count's service-as I expect I will someday. He would want me to apologize again for leaving you to your own devices today-although I suspect perhaps you appreciated the opportunity, from a scholarly perspective. I don't think he'll be back in time for lunch, but by nightfall at least we'll see him again, with apology."

"Nothing to apologize for," Aubrey said. "I don't mean to be rude, but do you do everything for him? I'd expect him to keep a large staff, but the way things are it seems like you wouldn't leave them much to do."

Raeford's expression flickered for a second. "I am the master's only attendant most days. He wouldn't want me to say so, but he lives quite humbly-all this, the castle, the cars, the meals, they're for your benefit. The house of Dracula has not enjoyed real wealth and station for-oh, well more years than even I'm old enough to remember. I'd hazard you are quite a bit wealthier than we are, in real terms."

Starting, Aubrey said, "I had no idea. I would never have imposed-"

"It's not an imposition," Raeford said. "People provide these things when the master asks for them out of respect; he could live in such a way all the time if he wished, but he has no desire to. I think luxury makes him lonely-or more precisely, it reminds him of his loneliness. That's why I advised him-I beg your pardon-to contact you in the first place.

"The book you're planning may revitalize the Dracula name; not for things like money or tourism, but by proving that we still have a place in the modern world. The master thinks only in terms of the past, as if we're intruders in this day and age, even in our own castle. But if he knew that we could be more-ah, how happy he might allow himself to be then."

A suspicion tickled the edges of Aubrey's mind, and by the time she opened her mouth to speak it she was completely convinced that it was true. "Raeford-YOU were the one who mailed me Stoker's diary, weren't you?"

Now the old man assumed an expression she had never seen on him thus far-for a second he looked almost mischievous. "I was supposed to secure it for the master. He'd been searching for it a long time. If he found out what I did with it instead...well, the important thing is it all worked out in the end."

Frowning, Aubrey said, "IS this the end?"

Instead of answering, Raeford stood, gathered his things up, and reminded her that lunch would soon be served. Once again, he left Aubrey in a daze.

Once lunch was done, she passed the rest of the afternoon on her own, amusing herself in the dungeons, where the museum staff had assembled all manner of lurid exhibits on torture and imprisonment.

The day stretched on without any sign of the count, and just as she was beginning to worry that he might not make their engagement after all, another message came to her phone-they would meet for dinner in the grand western tower. The sun was setting by the time the appointment came; climbing the steps up to the old tower, Aubrey's mind raced. Nearing the door, she wasn't sure whether she should knock, and in the end she barged right in. She only made it a few steps before stopping in her tracks, and she audibly gasped.

"Welcome," said the count.

He looked exactly the same as the last time they'd met-only the immaculate state of his outfit told her he'd bothered to change clothes. The room was filled-crammed, almost-with baroque furniture, the dark wood, polished brass, and gleaming silver all practically glowing in the candlelight. A sumptuous meal was once again set out, this time on dishes that looked like they should have been locked securely in one of the displays downstairs; the table the count escorted her to looked old enough to have seated the most ancient of Wallachian princes. Even the candelabra, she imagined, was probably worth more than the royalties on at least one of her books-or nearly so.

The count filled her wine glass but took none for himself. "I never drink-wine," he said, sounding apologetic. Raeford was nowhere in sight, and the count served her himself, again eating almost nothing in his own right. The windows of the old tower were small and narrow, but they provided a sweeping view of the sky over the Carpathians-mountains that were older than some of Saturn's rings.

Seated neither next to her nor opposite her, the count once again regarded her with intense interest during the meal. "Ordinarily only I am allowed in this room," he said. "These are some of the oldest family relics, and the only ones I still own myself, though they reside here even when I do not. Other than the family name, they are the only true treasures I possess."

"I don't think that's true at all," Aubrey said. And then, "Your great grandfather left you these things, I assume?"

The count smiled in a thin way. "How did you know?"

"You must not realize how often you mention him."

"He was a great man-a true old Dracula. But he was a tyrant too-everything in our family history, the good and the bad, was poured into him. He was the count in the days when Stoker came here, of course."

"Of course," Aubrey said. She still was not sure whether to mention the diary-or, now, how she'd gotten it.

"In fact...Ms. Chase, I hope I can be completely honest with you?" the count continued.

"I hope you're never anything but."

"The truth is...family legend has always been quite clear on the point that although my great grandfather invited Stoker here under the auspices of assisting with his book, in truth he didn't like the idea of an outsider writing about us. He would have done anything to stop such a story from being published. It's...entirely possible he DID do anything. If you understand me?"

Pausing over her wine, Aubrey searched the count's features-his hooded eyes, his patrician nose, the wry twist of his mouth-before venturing an answer. "Are you suggesting that the old count is the reason Bram Stoker disappeared before writing his Dracula book?"

"I am doing far more than suggesting it," the count said. "Understand, they were friends: Stoker was a member of the Golden Dawn, and the old count was a master of occult lore. When Stoker wrote to him, he was happy to keep up a correspondence. It was only when Stoker's interest became more personal that it began to suggest problems..."

A stormy expression passed over the count's face, but only for a second. "You understand why I'm telling you this?" he said after a moment.

"Because...you want there to be trust between us."

"I do. But actually, I just meant that I assumed you would figure it all out for yourself eventually anyway."

Aubrey paused. Then she laughed; soon, she couldn't stop laughing, and the laughter felt good. Then, before she could think better of it, she let herself lean forward and kiss the count. His touch was strange; warm, but not warm. But he returned the kiss with unreserved passion, and when they finished she was nearly panting.

The rest of the meal passed in a heady rush of easy smiles and easy conversation. It was well into the night-almost the early hours of the morning-before they finally parted. More than any other topic, they talked about the book. "I...regret what happened with Stoker," the count said. "He was a good friend, and a good writer; he should have been allowed to finish his work. If the old count were here-if he were me-he'd say that it's long since time to amend what was done in those days."

"Sometimes you talk as if you knew him too."

"That is my way. But I don't want your book to exist only in the shadow of a dead man; you're an extraordinary writer for this age. The story has come to you now, and it's time for you to really make it yours."

"With a little help?"

"Whenever I can give it," the count said, and smiled again. Hours passed, and they made plans almost until dawn: plans for the book, plans for her research, and plans for the count's role in both writing and promoting it. "I see this as a chance to inject fresh blood into the Dracula line-if you get my meaning?" he said.

But for once, Aubrey was not thinking about writing when she turned in; tonight she would have been too excited even to concentrate on such things. Standing at the old mirror in her room, she brushed her hair out and chided herself to stop grinning like an idiot. It didn't work.

She tried to plan her day for tomorrow but found she couldn't concentrate on that either. Tomorrow would just have to come when it came, she decided. Putting the lights down, she remembered Raeford's warning about sleepwalking...but she left the door unlocked anyway, and also left the dresser where it was. After all, it really wouldn't be such a bad thing if someone did come calling in the night...not a bad thing at all.