Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
But the book, my god, the fucking book. He took Mina and Lucy’s names and put them in the book but attributed them to the wrong people, none of them my lovers. Dracula was given no love story whatsoever. I was still a count, but the name Valtu Aminoff was nowhere to be found. He took my tales of living in Eastern Europe in various castles and turned them into pure schlock. Doctor Van Helsing became a fucking vampire slayer, can you believe it? At least his name was correct. And who the devil was this Renfield fellow? I guess the mind of a writer can only do so much with reality. Stoker never set about to write my story, he wanted to write his own, one in which he was in total control. He liked to be in control, that Bram, which I abhorred. It never would have worked between us.
But while this journal is in my possession again, I might as well settle down with a brandy and remember what was real and true, before I become Dracula, and Dracula’s story becomes my own.
* * *
THE VICTORIAN AGE
London – 1888
* * *
“Dreadful day,” Van Helsing said, putting down his newspaper for a moment to glower at the rain on the window, the streets outside filled with the sound of hoofbeats and carriage wheels splashing through dirty puddles.
I reached over for the sugar and dolloped a large amount into my coffee, giving it a stir. “I have a hard time believing you’re not used to this weather.”
He glared at me over his newspaper. “You would think that the rain would agree with me, but I can’t stand it. Can’t stand the sun either.”
“Not many of us can,” I mused, the scent of the coffee overwhelmed me for a moment before I instinctively compartmentalized it. If we didn’t do that on a minute-by-minute basis, we would go insane, the world too rich with sights, sounds and smells.
“Aside from you,” Van Helsing said.
I shrugged. “Sunglasses go a long way.”
“You look ridiculous in those things,” he pointed out.
I shrugged again. “I’ve never cared about looking ridiculous or not. Humans find a way to stare at me at any rate, I might as well give them a reason they understand.”
“The ladies stare at you for reasons I’m sure you understand,” he said grumpily.
“The men do too,” I said with a smile.
He ignored me. “I can only compel them, you seem to have a natural talent, Val.”
That brought out another smile from me. “We can’t all be this handsome, Doctor.”
He grumbled and went back to reading. It was a rather dreadful day, but it seemed to suit his mood just fine. It was true that I didn’t have an aversion to the sun the way that Helsing and the other vampires did, but I think they didn’t know to ignore it. The sun didn’t bother our skin much, just our eyes because they were so sensitive, so sunglasses, even though they were a relatively rare thing to see about town, were helpful.
I found something invigorating about the sun, like it gave me energy. Too much of it for too long and I would become drained, but bursts of it here and there were like a tonic to my soul. It even helped stave off the hunger and in times that I was trying to be good, I could go for months at a time without feeding if I escaped to the sunny climates of Southern Spain, Italy, Greece, Morocco.
But in London, I had to feed much more often. I felt a pang of hunger just thinking about it and drank down the rest of my coffee to help quell it. It helped for the most part.
“You are looking rather wan,” the doctor said, putting his newspaper down and peering at me. “When was the last time you fed?”
“I’m fine,” I told him dismissively. I didn’t want to think too much about that last time. I was haunting Whitechapel, the same place that Doctor Helsing often sourced, looking for someone the world wouldn’t miss. There was a lot of them there, people that could disappear and no one would bat an eye. It was a sad place, but I told myself that I had to feed in order to survive, that it wasn’t my fault I was born this animal any more than it was probably their fault they were born into poverty. I told myself that I was doing them a favor and putting them out of their misery. It helped squash the guilt. Better to be dead than to sell your body on the streets, or so I told myself.
But the last time I fed, my prey fought back. She was drunk, and old, but still she fought. She even had a name, Mary Ann, which I cared not to know. It always made things harder to know their names. It was why farmers should never name their cattle. I had to slash her throat and drain her blood that way. It felt so violent, not in the style of a vampire. I much preferred to bite and feed, it was the way beasts were meant to.