Sir Ambrose Poole for the t’occasion. Well, ’tis an ill wind
that blows no one good.” The grizzled little man cocked an eyebrow at Renfield. “You marry a maid, you
marry her ma, and Christ help the man ends up with that old man-trap for a mother-in-law. You know
what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Renfield softly, thinking of cold-eyed Lady Brough … though of course, Catherine was
nothing at all like her mother. And that hatchet-faced harridan Georgina Clay-burne, who wanted nothing
more than to re-claim Catherine’s share of their father’s money for her precious “family.”
“Yes, I know what you mean.”
Sometimes in sleep he could see Catherine, in that London house they’d bought under the name of
Marshmire, dozing by lamplight. Or in his dreams he’d walk up the stairs of their old house in
Nottingham, as he’d used to years ago, to see Vixie in her nursery, that bright-eyed nymph face relaxed
in sleep, a black curl falling over her forehead. These dreams comforted him deeply, for he missed them
both. Even had they been able to get word to him without Georgina and Lady Brough hearing of it and
finding a way to trace them-to take Vixie away–communication was now doubly perilous.
And sometimes he would dream of Vixie, waking in her nursery room in that house in Nottingham, not
a little girl but the young lady that she was now, sixteen and beautiful, wearing I_ucy Westenra’s
night-dress.
In these dreams she would wake, and sit up in bed, dark eyes wide in the darkness. Outside the
window rain fell through fog, and the tiny glow of her night-light sparkled on it as she got out of bed,
crossed to the window, threw open the casement. Ren-field Would struggle to reach her, struggle to cry
out to her, Vixie, don’t!
And He was outside her window. Slowly coalescing from the shadow;, as the three Valkyries had
coalesced from the dark-ness, fog, and rain in Renfield’s long-ago dream of the hopeless prisoner named
Jonathan. The thing in the chapel, the thing Renfield still sometimes called Wotan, though he knew now
that it was something else, some other Traveler. Wind lifted and stirred Wotan’s black cloak, and in the
darkness his eyes were red as flame, staring into Vixie’s.
Vixie, no!
Then Renfield would waken himself screaming, and those imbecile attendants would come with their
laudanum and chlo-ral hydrate, like rescuers determined to shove a drowning man back down under the
waves.
And they wondered that he fought them!
Yet more often, Renfield dreamed of Lucy Westenra: dreamed, knowing he participated in the dreams
of the thing in the chapel, that could touch Lucy’s sleeping mind. He dreamed of Lucy waking in the
darkness and stumbling to the window, dreamed of the floating shadow, the crimson eyes. Dreamed of
the fangs that pierced her throat, of those coarse hands with their claw-like nails, caressing her as if he
would mould her flesh into what he sought her to be. Once Renfield saw Wotan push back his sleeve and
tear open the vein of his own arm, and press Lucy’s white lips to the wound.
“Drink,” Renfield heard him breathe. “Drink, or you will die.”
Half-swooning, Lucy whispered, “Please … I don’t want to die . . .” and the dark intruder pulled back
her head by a hand-ful of her fair hair, and held the dripping cut up over her mouth, so that his blood
dropped down onto her lips.
“Then drink, my beautiful, my beloved one. Drink, and you shall never die. For the blood is the life.”
Droplets of the blood splashed on her cheek, mixing with her tears of terror and shame.
Renfield was aware of the old man Seward brought to see Lucy, a short, sturdy septuagenarian with
long white hair that hung to his shoulders and a jaw like a pugnacious bulldog’s. He guessed it was Dr.
Van Helsing, whom Hennessey had spo-ken of as Seward’s teacher and master: “Weird old sod, and
studies every spook and fairy-tale like they was Freud and
that blows no one good.” The grizzled little man cocked an eyebrow at Renfield. “You marry a maid, you
marry her ma, and Christ help the man ends up with that old man-trap for a mother-in-law. You know
what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Renfield softly, thinking of cold-eyed Lady Brough … though of course, Catherine was
nothing at all like her mother. And that hatchet-faced harridan Georgina Clay-burne, who wanted nothing
more than to re-claim Catherine’s share of their father’s money for her precious “family.”
“Yes, I know what you mean.”
Sometimes in sleep he could see Catherine, in that London house they’d bought under the name of
Marshmire, dozing by lamplight. Or in his dreams he’d walk up the stairs of their old house in
Nottingham, as he’d used to years ago, to see Vixie in her nursery, that bright-eyed nymph face relaxed
in sleep, a black curl falling over her forehead. These dreams comforted him deeply, for he missed them
both. Even had they been able to get word to him without Georgina and Lady Brough hearing of it and
finding a way to trace them-to take Vixie away–communication was now doubly perilous.
And sometimes he would dream of Vixie, waking in her nursery room in that house in Nottingham, not
a little girl but the young lady that she was now, sixteen and beautiful, wearing I_ucy Westenra’s
night-dress.
In these dreams she would wake, and sit up in bed, dark eyes wide in the darkness. Outside the
window rain fell through fog, and the tiny glow of her night-light sparkled on it as she got out of bed,
crossed to the window, threw open the casement. Ren-field Would struggle to reach her, struggle to cry
out to her, Vixie, don’t!
And He was outside her window. Slowly coalescing from the shadow;, as the three Valkyries had
coalesced from the dark-ness, fog, and rain in Renfield’s long-ago dream of the hopeless prisoner named
Jonathan. The thing in the chapel, the thing Renfield still sometimes called Wotan, though he knew now
that it was something else, some other Traveler. Wind lifted and stirred Wotan’s black cloak, and in the
darkness his eyes were red as flame, staring into Vixie’s.
Vixie, no!
Then Renfield would waken himself screaming, and those imbecile attendants would come with their
laudanum and chlo-ral hydrate, like rescuers determined to shove a drowning man back down under the
waves.
And they wondered that he fought them!
Yet more often, Renfield dreamed of Lucy Westenra: dreamed, knowing he participated in the dreams
of the thing in the chapel, that could touch Lucy’s sleeping mind. He dreamed of Lucy waking in the
darkness and stumbling to the window, dreamed of the floating shadow, the crimson eyes. Dreamed of
the fangs that pierced her throat, of those coarse hands with their claw-like nails, caressing her as if he
would mould her flesh into what he sought her to be. Once Renfield saw Wotan push back his sleeve and
tear open the vein of his own arm, and press Lucy’s white lips to the wound.
“Drink,” Renfield heard him breathe. “Drink, or you will die.”
Half-swooning, Lucy whispered, “Please … I don’t want to die . . .” and the dark intruder pulled back
her head by a hand-ful of her fair hair, and held the dripping cut up over her mouth, so that his blood
dropped down onto her lips.
“Then drink, my beautiful, my beloved one. Drink, and you shall never die. For the blood is the life.”
Droplets of the blood splashed on her cheek, mixing with her tears of terror and shame.
Renfield was aware of the old man Seward brought to see Lucy, a short, sturdy septuagenarian with
long white hair that hung to his shoulders and a jaw like a pugnacious bulldog’s. He guessed it was Dr.
Van Helsing, whom Hennessey had spo-ken of as Seward’s teacher and master: “Weird old sod, and
studies every spook and fairy-tale like they was Freud and
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