Dracula: Things That Go Bump and Grind in the Night - by Hannah England

          After the cosmic dust of his adventure settled, and the stars began to re-align, Jonathan Harker often looked back and wondered where everything had begun. Was it the moment where, with trembling lips, he uttered the word ‘vampire’? Could it be that a single, unapologetic accusation caused the first tremors in his universe?
Even as the thought raced through his mind, he knew it wasn’t true – the real journey had begun much earlier than that. Perhaps even as early as when he woke up to see an email from a new client, requesting – no, demanding – his presence.
That didn’t strike him as uncommon – as one of the top realtors in London, he was often summoned by clients who were less than patient in waiting for a response, and not at all eager to accept no for an answer; what made this client different, was that she wasn’t based in London – or in the United Kingdom at all.
The client was based in the United States – Las Vegas, to be exact; which happened to be about five-thousand-two-hundred miles further than the furthest clients Jonathan would consider seeing. He immediately made to decline the offer, when something caught his eye in the midst of the wall of text in front of him - and that was the price listed for his presence.

The customer, apparently, was willing to pay Jonathan about ten thousand pounds more than the average client – based entirely on commission.
In retrospect, perhaps that should have been the first warning sign. But Jonathan had a fiancé to appease and a wedding to plan, so he didn’t consider any sceptical view of the job - he just bought a plane ticket.

          Jonathan wasn’t the tourist type, and he never had been. This was a feature of his that was often to the chagrin of his fiancé, Mina, who was nothing short of a true adventurer at heart. For every moment Jonathan had spent of his youth locked away in a library, Mina had spent twice as many making her way through hidden paths, hiding in the bushes of parks until dark (and ultimately, turning her mother’s hair prematurely grey), if only to see the foxes slink from their homes into the moonlight.
Mina’s chest thrummed with the beating of wings and the crash of waves against rocks on hidden beaches, while Jonathan’s hummed steadily in its isolated casket. They were, both of them, happy to remain that way, and more than happy to remain with each other.
Still, on this occasion, Jonathan couldn’t help but be a little bit pleased that his fiancé hadn’t accompanied him – lest he be dragged in and out of museums and tourist attractions, built to astonish and amaze, and bleed dry the tight lining of the wallet.

Being, as he was, an anti-tourist, Jonathan was devoid of any of the presumptuousness that may have led him to believe that he would have been able to navigate the streets of downtown Las Vegas without any assistance. Utterly afraid of being one of those imbeciles with his nose trapped within the folds of a map, Jonathan instead found solace in the sticky, sweat-slick seats of several taxis.
The one he found himself in shortly before reaching his destination - La Maison du Péché, -was inhabited by a grunting primitive of a man, with grease-slicked hair, and a tattoo of a wolf on his meaty arm. The driver, to no-one’s surprise, responded to Jonathan’s (albeit, somewhat obligatory) niceties with a series of huffs and incoherent grumbles; but even that couldn’t dull the realtor’s optimism as the taxi parked outside his destination.

Shoving a handful of cash into the driver’s hand (he assumed it was enough, and exited too quickly to be corrected were it not the case), Jonathan slipped out of the door and stared appraisingly up at the building before him.

From a professional point of view, it was a wasteland. While the rest of the buildings on the street seemed vibrant and modern, with fancy lighting and décor on the outside, the one ahead of Jonathan seemed dismal, in comparison. It was the tallest in the street, towering prominently over him, seeming to project its shadow onto the rest of the road – even the parts that were caught by the sun seemed to be tainted somehow. There were no windows, so to speak, but rather thin, cross-shaped crevices within the dark grey brick. Jonathan thought that, were the building not so serious, there would be something rather novel about it. Even the door, with its heavy wooden panels and chain fixtures, looked like something from a cheap haunted house – except more real. It was that striking reality that made the venue so affronting. Were it not for the red, faintly flashing sign above the door showing the name of the building and proclaiming to house ‘girls, girls, girls’, there would be no telling what was inside.

Jonathan stepped up to the door, swallowing his reluctance.
He took a moment to collect himself, before pressing a finger to the electric buzzer.
It was only as he did this, and felt the sense of irony rush through him, that he realised that he was actually surprised to see the (relatively) modern equipment. It was as if he’d been expected to be greeted by a creepy butler, with a chilling smile plastered across his face, and a glass of arsenic in his gloved hand.
He hadn’t recognised that he was actually hoping for this outcome, until the drop of disappointment hit his stomach as a polite, clear-cut voice replied from the other end of the speaker.

“La Maison du Péché, this is Matilda speaking, how may I help you?” came the voice, practiced and concise. Jonathan cleared his throat, taking a step closer to the speaker.

“My name’s Jonathan Harker. I’m, ah, here to see-“ he glanced down at the name scribbled above the address on his scrap of paper. However, before he could respond, that same clear tone spoke again.

“Of course, Mr. Harker, the Countess is waiting for you,” Matilda said succinctly. Jonathan didn’t get another word in, before there was a sharp click, and the wooden door swung open.
Jonathan barely allowed himself time for one shaky, nervous breath, before he crossed the threshold into the building.

          The first thing Jonathan noticed was the smell. He was immediately enveloped in a thick, all-encompassing mass of incense. He felt as though the soft, smoky scent was creeping in through his nose and mouth, wrapping a delicate haze around his brain. Everything in the room seemed soft and dulled, from the deep burgundy carpets, to the high, chandeliered ceilings. Along the back of the venue was a bar, and directly parallel, a wide, runway-style stage, adorned with mirrors and silver lights. It looked like something from an old black and white Hollywood movie – the effect of which was not in the least hindered by the soft tones of jazz playing from a disembodied source, nor the residents of the venue.
In his research about the club, he’d learned two main things: it was a once-famous Burlesque club that had fallen to a sudden financial ruin, and that it was owned by a Madam Dray. He hadn’t, in his research, gathered any information about a 1920s theme – yet that was the only way he could justify what was happening around him. The men were suited in waistcoats and fedoras, while the women scurried around in revealing, lacy dresses – many with their breasts bared, at the very least.
Momentarily, Jonathan felt very out of place, as if he should have made some effort to dress for the occasion, even though such a concept was ridiculous.

          There was a considerable time between Jonathan entering the venue, and anyone acknowledging his presence. While he stood there, allowing his disconcertment wash over him, the staff just bustled around him, avoiding him as if he weren’t even there.
Eventually, though, he was approached by a woman. She appeared to be in her late twenties – not much younger than Harker himself – and was, undeniably, very attractive. With her sleek, bob-cut blonde hair and wide blue eyes, she looked like she could have been a model in the 20s. The tight, silver corset tugged around her waist did nothing to break the illusion, either. She smiled at Jonathan, tilting her head a little. There was something in the gesture that seemed very childlike and, for reasons he was unable to place, sent a chill through him.

“You’re here for Madam Dray?” the woman asked. Her voice was unnaturally high, and was fitted with a Brooklyn drawl, making her sound far cheaper than she looked.
Jonathan smiled in a way which he hoped was inviting, and nodded briskly.

“Yes, we have an appointment,” he said softly, embarrassed when his words came out hoarse. He blamed the incense, which still seemed to be pouring into him in every available orifice.
The woman smiled, extending a slender arm towards him, her perfectly manicured hand reaching for his own.

“I’m Lucy. Want me to go get The Countess?” she asked brightly. Once again, Jonathan felt an unusual and unnerving shudder run through him. Not wanting to put off his conversational partner, though (and, at this point, being very eager to begin business), he waved it off.

“Yes, please,” he said, keeping his tone professional, and his eyes very firmly trained on her face. Lucy beamed, taking a step back.

“No need – good morning, Madam,” Lucy said, her eyes falling to a figure behind Jonathan. Realising immediately that there was no other acceptable response, Jonathan slowly turned around to face the figure behind him. As he had no time in this action to take another steeling gasp, he was almost caught breathless when he saw the woman in front of him.
Madam Dray was beautiful. She was clearly older than him – perhaps in her mid-fifties – but there was a sort of youthful charm about her that seemed to cling to her like an aura. Her copper hair flowed down to the top of the black corset she wore, tightened firmly around her waist. Under the corset, she wore a floor-length black dress, with tiny red flecks when she moved under the dim lights, like tiny droplets of blood embedded into the fabric.
The thing that caught Jonathan the most, though, was her eyes. They were a deep brown, almost black, and appeared to be very severely bloodshot. However, this miniscule blemish seemed to only intensify her attractiveness.

“Madam Dray, I’m-

“Mr. Harker. I’m Madam Dray. Or Madame Dracula, if you prefer. The Countess, to clients,” she said, her voice cool and crisp, each word rolling off her tongue like the gentle sweep of a paintbrush down a canvas. There was a sort of gentle accent to her tone that Jonathan couldn’t place – certainly European, though. As she spoke, her lips twitched with a gentle smirk that seemed to only quicken the effect the incense was having on Jonathan’s mind. His eyes felt unfocused, his head busy and heavy, almost lolling on his shoulders.

“Madam. Do you have an office we could discuss business in?” Jonathan asked. For reasons unknown to him, he found himself entirely avoiding her eyes, staring instead at the space over her shoulder. The Countess, though, seemed entirely unfazed by this, her eyes fixed on Jonathan as her grin spread across her cheeks.

“Of course,” she said simply, as though the answer were so blatantly obvious that Jonathan was a fool for even asking.
Indeed, he certainly felt like one. With a handful of words, The Countess had managed to create a blabbering idiot of a well-respected man, turning his own mind to goo, as his heart pounded with the force of a thousand comets crashing into his ribcage.

          The Countess’s office was, to Jonathan’s dismay, up four flights of winding staircases, with no elevator to assist. By the time they reached the door, Jonathan was gasping for air, while The Countess seemed entirely unnerved. She simply unlocked the door, and moved to sit behind her desk, a patient smile on her lips as she waited for Jonathan to take his seat across from her.
The office itself was nothing special – it just had very much the same décor as the rest of the club. It made Jonathan wonder just how much it would cost to modernise the building – and was it even worth selling?
Was any of this worth it, in the end?

“So, Mr. Harker. Firstly, thank you for coming all this way to help me. I’ve heard good things about you,” Madam Dray began, her back absolutely straight and rigid, her gaze unwavering as she stared at him. Jonathan laughed softly.

“It’s no problem at all, Madam. I haven’t had the chance to look around yet, but I have to admit, it’s going to be quite the challenge to get this place on the market for a while. It needs some… renovation,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, his eyes flitting over the cobwebs in the darkened corners of the room. The Countess’ smile, however, didn’t waver for a moment.

“But you can get it on there, no?”

“Yes. No. Uh – I can sell it. You’ll just have to give me a few days, y’know? I’ll need to contact contractors and the like, to try and get an estimate for how much it’ll cost to…spruce things up. At least, enough to get it at a basic selling price,” he explained, feeling more confident now that he had the conversational upper-hand.
The Countess shattered that illusion, however, with one swift movement as she leaned across the desk towards him. The neckline of her dress fell slightly, revealing the soft swell of her breasts under the thin fabric. Jonathan felt his stomach clench as he quickly averted his eyes, guilt already setting in his mind.

“That is perfectly fine, Mr. Harker. Where will you be staying during this time?” she asked coolly. Jonathan swallowed, loosening his tie ever so slightly.
The action was not missed by The Countess, who allowed her smirk to widen a little.

“Geez, I imagine…maybe a motel, or-

“Nonsense. You can stay here,” The Countess said, her voice seeming to project off the walls, echoing clearly into Jonathan’s mind, rattling through his skull. He swallowed hard.

“Um. Here, Madam?”

“Here. There is an apartment on the sixth floor – two floors up. It’s nothing special, mind, but it’s got the basics, and I’m willing to let you stay there for free,” she said airily, as if it were already a done deal.

“That sounds wonderful, Madam, truly. Thank you,” Jonathan said sincerely. The Countess smiled fondly, reaching forward to gently touch his hand.

“Don’t worry, Jonathan. It’s the least I can do, since you came out all this way for me,” she said, her tone dropping to a soft, almost sensual purr, but with enough genuine kindness in it to cover any malice that may have been lurking within.
It was only later that Jonathan realised that he hadn’t told her his first name before she said it. He was, in that moment, too astonished by her generosity.

“Thank you.”

The Countess smiled, similarly to the way a lion may smile at a small bird. It was patronising, certainly, and more than a little intimidating.

“I just need to see some identification,” she said, her tone prompting. Jonathan was quiet for a moment, before leaping to life, letting out a soft cry of recognition as he fumbled with his pocket to produce his driver’s licence.
It was then that she first saw her.

Tucked away inside Jonathan’s wallet, was a small photo of Mina. Immediately, The Countess’s eyes narrowed onto it. The grin that crossed Madam Dray’s face then, was nothing short of absolutely terrifying. Her eyes widened manically, her smile more of a baring of teeth.

“Who is this?” she demanded, her voice akin to a serpent’s hiss.
Jonathan was quiet for a moment as he watched her, his heart once more thrumming in his chest as a wave of panic crashed over him. His first instinct was to lie, but somehow he knew she’d find out if he did.

“M-Mina. That’s Mina. My fiancé,” he mumbled. Already he was regretting his agreement with the strange, enigmatic older woman.
She glanced up, her eyes still glistening with predatory glee – yet she appeared to be trying to restrain it.

“Well. She’s very beautiful. What a lucky man you are,” she sneered. Everything about her words and her body language made it appear as if she were mocking the man.
Perhaps it was the cold, cutting tone of her voice, or the icy fire that raged in her eyes as she snarled down at him that sent the first true slivers of pure fear through Jonathan’s system – but he doubted it. The thing that he was certain was the cause of his almost hypnotic panic, were the two slender, fang-like canines that protruded slightly from her lips as she bared her teeth.

It was in that moment that Jonathan realised something had begun. A new chapter. An adventure.

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