Characters: Count Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing
Relationship: Count Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing
Agatha stood by the castle door, fiddling with the ties of her traveling cloak.
‘Can you please make up your mind already?’
A tall man stood in the doorway. Very tall. Ten feet, at least, she thought.
‘You've been doing the same thing for about twenty minutes now. You approach the door, raise your hand, and are about to knock. You turn around, walk away, and reach the rain barrel. You turn around, come back, and try to knock. And so on, in a circle.’
Agatha glanced over her shoulder at the stone-paved courtyard.
‘I was watching from the second floor.’
He was staring at her openly and unceremoniously. For a moment, Agatha imagined what she looked like – a gray cloak, a gray, worn suitcase with her things, even her face, probably gray – from fatigue and road dust.
The man's voice brought her out of her reverie.
‘Yes. I think I'll be leaving.’ Agatha leaned over and reached for her bag.
‘You seem like a brave woman.’
‘Why?’ Agatha asked, surprised.
‘It's late. It's getting dark. You most likely reached the mountain pass in a carriage and then walked straight through the forest. This route is quite safe during the day. The same can't be said for the night.’
‘Robbing you seems pointless,’ he said, casting a critical glance at her. ‘So they'll probably stab you. Perhaps dishonor you.’
Agatha ran her hand across her forehead. Such a thought hadn't occurred to her. Perhaps because she hadn't considered... what would happen if her plan didn't work.
Looking up at the man, she sighed.
‘You are Count Dracula, aren't you?’
‘Then why should I be concerned about the scum wandering the forest?’ Agatha asked. ‘From what I've heard, you are a vampire. Therefore, you are the most dangerous predator in the area.’
Dracula looked at her, tilting his head.
‘Prey rarely comes to you,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘Even more rarely does it speak insolently. Are you a vampire hunter? Do you plan to destroy me?’
He spoke the last words with exaggerated drama. Agatha winced.
‘It's almost nine o'clock. I haven't eaten since... since I left home, and I've walked at least four miles. I can't imagine how I could kill you – unless I'd just talked you to death. But that's not my strong point.’
He smiled openly now. He stepped aside, inviting Agatha in.
‘Sister Agatha Van Helsing.’
She stepped into the candlelit stone hall. Her suitcase weighed heavily on her arm.
‘What a wonderful evening,’ Count Dracula said, closing the door behind her.
Agatha looked up from the fragrant cherry strudel and at Dracula.
‘Dinner's almost over, your eyes are sparkling with wine,’ Dracula smiled. ‘Now's the time to tell me what your problem is.’
‘What makes you think I have problems?’ Agatha asked. She pinched off a piece of the strudel and placed it in her mouth. The delicate dough melted on her tongue, filling her mouth with pulp and cherry juice.
Dracula leaned back in his chair and intertwined his fingers.
‘Let me think. You showed up on my doorstep this evening, with a suitcase and an expression more befitting a hanged man. You said you weren't afraid to go back through the forest and mentioned you'd been a nun. Am I forgetting anything?’
Dracula nodded with satisfaction.
‘That's enough for me, I think.’
She reached for her wine glass.
‘You were obviously running from something,’ Dracula continued, watching her take a sip from her glass, ‘and it was obviously something terrible, since you ran away to me.’
Putting down her glass, Agatha rubbed her forehead.
‘There are rumors about you. All sorts of rumors,’ she admitted. ‘Just go downstream along the Arges River and you'll hear a ton of tales about you. An old count who steals babies at night. An old count who seduces young maidens. A handsome young man who transforms into a bat. A sorcerer who drinks blood.’
‘An impressive track record.’
She's now ready to believe the story about the handsome man, Agatha thought, casting a quick glance at Dracula. Apparently, the glance was telling, because Dracula chuckled.
‘I spoke with the gypsies,’ Agatha continued. ‘They told me how to get here. And they told me what you take... that you pay them for bringing people.’
‘But you didn't ask them to bring you.’
‘Prey rarely comes to you.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘I was born far away,’ Agatha said slowly after a couple of minutes. ‘Far away from here. How I ended up here is unimportant, and unimportant is why. I spent the last five years in a village below the river bend. Have you been there?’
‘A long time ago. I think I was alive then.’
‘What do you know about this village?’
Dracula clearly wasn't expecting the question.
‘It's an ordinary village, about thirty houses. Cozy, nice. As far as I remember. Very respectable.’
Agatha gave a short laugh and squeezed the stem of her glass.
‘Did you know they were selling people?’
The room fell silent again.
‘I knew. I knew, and I did nothing to stop them.’
She leaned back in her chair and drained her glass in one gulp.
They sat in armchairs by the fireplace, and Agatha gazed absently into the flames.
‘After leaving the convent, I sought only one thing – peace,’ she said quietly. ‘I wanted to find a calm place where I could live, read, and work, conducting experiments where something might explode occasionally, but not so violently that it would harm anyone.’
She raised her head and looked at Dracula.
‘Chemistry and alchemy are still considered witchcraft in some remote places. But here they were treated... indifferently. The strange nun, who rarely went out in public and was always brewing something in her home, didn't bother them.’
She paused, watching the flames consume the logs.
‘And two years ago, people started disappearing in the village. Young, beautiful women,’ she said. ‘Or rather, at first, it didn't look like they were missing.’ Agatha frowned. ‘When the first one disappeared, her family said she went to town. Married a mason or a carpenter there. No one suspected…’ Agatha paused again. ‘Six months later, another one disappeared. The village headman said she was torn apart by wolves in the forest.’
She turned and caught Dracula's attentive gaze.
‘Over the next year and a half, five more women disappeared,’ Agatha said. ‘I think they barely even hid it by the end. Everyone knew what was happening,’ she added bitterly. ‘The families who could afford to take their daughters away left almost immediately. Others were quickly married off. I only figured it out when the headman invited me to talk after the summer fair.’
She fell silent again, and for a while the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire.
‘He told you there wasn't a single virgin left in the village,’ Dracula said. ‘No one – except you.’
‘What did they do with them?’
‘What do they do with virgins in such cases? They give them to the monster.’
She leaned forward. It was the first time she'd told this story to anyone. Agatha hadn't expected it to be so difficult – so difficult to say it out loud.
‘When he brought me to his home and explained over tea that he'd encountered a werewolf in the forest two years ago, I thought he was crazy. Life is full of surprises; anything can happen to people. But then he gave me the exact dates Elsa, Emily, and Lisbeth disappeared. He remembered what they were wearing and where they were last seen. Then it became clear he wasn't crazy.’
Agatha fell silent again.
‘Most of the time, except during the full moon, werewolves live like ordinary people,’ she said. ‘Some mingle with the local population. Sometimes they actively participate in public life. I heard of a werewolf who became mayor. The headman said his werewolf was polite, even courteous. He offered our headman a deal.
‘One virgin every three months, during the full moon. And in exchange for what?’
‘Protection from bandits and enemy armies, should any appear,’ Agatha sighed. ‘That's what astonishes me most,’ she said. ‘He didn't even threaten them with death. He didn't promise them gold or power. He told them he would protect them.’
‘A valuable asset for someone with something to fear,’ Dracula said. ‘However, your headman is a rare fool. I can't believe he asked you to crawl into the monster's mouth to save his Faustian drama.’
‘Alas, but that's exactly it. I'm not complaining,’ Agatha smiled sadly. ‘I deserved it. When you look away for so long while people die around you, don't be surprised by your fate. But I thought it would be foolish to just go to the slaughter.’
Dracula stood up and walked over to the table. He poured a glass of wine, came over, and handed it to Agatha.
‘You weren't to blame for what he did. You didn't even know about it.’
‘I knew. Everyone did,’ she said, watching the wine shimmer in the glass.
‘You had your own life. You were always cooking and blowing things up back there. Young women rarely remain untouched. Even more rarely do they stay at home for long. You believed his explanations because they seemed plausible.’
‘Mimi was fifteen when she disappeared. God only knows what he did to her.’
‘Werewolves don't usually rape their victims.’
‘Thank you for the consolation.’
‘I sat there and listened to him.’ Agatha took her glass and sipped. ‘I listened as he spoke of the greater good, of how I could protect them all. Of how honorable it is to come to the aid of my home village in its hour of need. He somehow forgot that I wasn't born there. I listened and listened – and then I agreed. To everything.’
‘You agreed?’ Dracula asked, astonished.
‘There are four weeks left until the full moon,’ Agatha continued, as if she hadn't heard him. ‘I realized that if I refused, if I resisted, all I'd achieve was being locked up. So I said I was ready to give myself to the werewolf, or whatever he was planning to do with me, ready to be his dinner. But first, I needed to go say goodbye to my family in Budapest.’
‘And he believed it? A fairytale excuse?’
Agatha nodded with a smile.
Dracula spread his hands in surprise.
‘You could have killed him right there. Why didn't you? I swear, he wouldn't have been smart enough to defend himself. What made him think you'd come back?’
‘Then you're even stupider than he is.’
‘I really am,’ Agatha sighed. ‘And certainly more vile, since I could have, but didn't, stop that caravan of virgins. The one who understands more will be held accountable,’ she added sadly, looking at Dracula.
She set the glass down on the table next to the chair.
‘I gave him my word to return in four weeks.’
‘What will he do without the virgins? Didn't you ask him about that?’
‘Why? I'll have a chance to see it with my own eyes.’
Dracula looked at Agatha, puzzled.
‘Come on, put two and two together. All I needed to punish him and keep the werewolf away was time and the right man,’ Agatha said impatiently. ‘I promised to return. But I didn't promise I'd still be a virgin when I return.’
Understanding dawned on Dracula's face, then quickly gave way to surprise.
‘You think I should have bribed the headman? He's foolish enough.’
Dracula burst out laughing.
‘From what I've heard, you don't need to pay a man for a night of love. And anyone who doesn't appreciate it – well, it's all they deserve.’
Agatha smiled weakly in response.
‘So…’ she began after a pause. ‘It may not be the best…’ she suddenly felt embarrassed, ‘but that's all there is.’
Dracula looked at her for a long moment.
‘Before I answer,’ he finally said, ‘I have two questions.’
‘First: what makes you think I won't eat you?’
Agatha leaned back in her chair.
‘Gypsies,’ she said. ‘I spent the whole evening with them and questioned them at length. They said you're strange. You drink blood, but don't always kill. You learned Chinese in a day. God only knows how a Chinese man ended up among them.’
‘That was an exquisite dessert.’
Agatha cast a weary glance at him.
‘I have no doubt about it. But the main thing,’ she said, ‘is that they claim they stopped supplying you six months ago. After they brought you a cloth merchant from Bistritz.’
‘From books about you and legends, I enquired that you know the hidden properties of blood,’ Agatha continued. ‘For example, that you can absorb memories when you bite. I thought it was just a fairy tale, but apparently it's true. That's where your Chinese language comes from.’
Dracula looked at her approvingly.
‘But you couldn't have satisfied yourself with just the merchant,’ Agatha said, ‘if you'd been eating everyone indiscriminately, like before. I checked – there's no news of missing people in the last six months. Conclusion: you never ate him. You're prolonging the pleasure, trying to control yourself.’
‘Bravo, Miss Agatha Van Helsing,’ Dracula smiled. ‘Should I take your virginity right now? I must admit, your sharp mind makes me... eager.’
Agatha felt herself blushing.
‘No need. We have to discuss all the details first.’ She glanced at him. ‘Then am I right?’
‘You are,’ Dracula replied. ‘And that brings us to the second question.’ He looked at her carefully. ‘What can you offer me?’
Agatha hesitated again. What, really? Certainly not exquisite pleasures and a luscious female body. Besides, she was too early, if anything. She had almost four weeks to go before she had to return, and no one was actually waiting for her in Budapest. What had she even expected? The plan that had seemed if not logical, but at least tolerable a minute ago, was falling apart before her eyes.
‘You said you were an alchemist,’ Dracula interrupted her frantic thoughts.
‘Chemist, alchemist – a matter of definition,’ Agatha shrugged. ‘Mostly, they are separated by the prejudices of scientists and the superstitions of ordinary people. Both view things from their own lens, convinced they know everything. They divide knowledge into fragments, thereby destroying it. They think mercury is nothing more than a metal. Or that the legend of the red lion makes no sense whatsoever. Both views are wrong.’ Agatha paused. ‘I research compounds, ideas, and substances.’
‘That's exactly what I need.’
She looked at him in surprise.
Dracula smiled charmingly.
‘Life is full of surprises,’ he said cheerfully and stood up.
‘Come on,’ he said in response to her confused look. ‘I'll show you the merchant from Bistritsa.’
Dracula and Agatha stood in a small room in the western part of the castle. The only furniture in it was a table, a wardrobe, a bed, and two chairs. A portly man with a bushy mustache snored on the bed, his arms spread out.
‘I treat him well,’ Dracula shrugged. ‘He eats enough for three and goes for walks twice a day.’
The man rolled onto his side and snored.
‘Well, you know,’ Dracula said. He motioned for Agatha to follow him and headed for the exit. ‘He's been living with me for three months. I can name his entire family back to the tenth generation. All their quirks, vices, family squabbles. It's starting to sound like some sentimental newspaper novel.’
‘Regularly. Are you laughing?’
‘No,’ Agatha pursed her lips.
‘Do you think this is funny?’
‘I think your desire to improve yourself is touching,’ Agatha smiled.
‘I don't want to improve myself,’ Dracula sighed, turning into the gallery. ‘I want to improve my life. What if I want to leave the castle? Live among civilized people? How am I supposed to do that if I'm always hungry and spreading death around me?’
‘That's logical,’ Agatha agreed. ‘Besides, this unfortunate man,’ she glanced back at the room, ‘or anyone else, can't stay here forever. You've learned to control yourself, but that's not enough,’ she concluded.
‘And that's why I need you.’ Dracula stepped aside, letting Agatha precede him into the great hall. ‘What do you know about Barthélemy's recipe?’
Evening light filtered through the library's stained-glass windows, casting whimsical shadows on the floor. The sun had set behind the horizon, and these remnants of golden flame posed no threat to Dracula. So, when Agatha was working, he often came down here at this hour and joined her.
‘Sometimes I think it's all pointless,’ Agatha muttered, running her hand through her hair. She turned and looked at Dracula as he approached. ‘That this is one of those rare instances where a legend is just a legend. And that's all.’
‘I didn't think you'd give up so easily.’
‘What's that got with easily?’ Agatha flared. She pushed herself away from the table and looked around at the dusty shelves stretching in all directions. ‘There are thousands... perhaps hundreds of thousands of volumes here. We know where to look, and what exactly. We've spent two weeks, wasted reams of paper and six ounces of priceless salts. And we're not one iota closer to our goal.’
She fell silent and rubbed her forehead wearily. All her life, she had suffered from a lack of knowledge. Like any hungry person, she thought: get more food, and consider life a success. And only when she found herself in Dracula's library did she realize how wrong she had been.
Dracula had been watching her with indulgent curiosity – all this time. While Agatha, sometimes with joyful exclamations, sometimes tired and on the verge of despair, examined books, studied ancient collections, and rummaged through catalogs, he sat in a chair, taking notes, planning experiments, and pointing out directions.
One day, she came across a first edition of Goethe. Lost in it, Agatha forgot her work, emerging from the book only when the room had become almost completely dark. Dracula, entering the library, lit the candles and, peering over her shoulder, turned a few pages.
‘Did you know there were rumors about him being a vampire?’
‘And he wasn't?’ Agatha asked.
‘No. Although he loved young women until his old age.’ Dracula ignored her reproachful glance. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from the book. ‘‘Herz, mein herz’*,’ Dracula smiled, unfolding it and smoothing the fragile paper. ‘A song he wrote for his beloved, who was forty years his junior. He even considered marrying her.’
Absentmindedly, Agatha nodded. Goethe never aroused her sympathy. But the amorous predilections of young women defied logic.
‘Ah, let me go, love, let me go!’ Dracula quoted pathetically, folding the sheet and handing it back.
… Distracted from her memories, Agatha glanced at the library shelves again.
Giovanni Battista Barthélemy was an Italian alchemist who lived at the turn of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. His legacy was impressive, but fragmentary. Having read almost everything she could find by him, Agatha praised the boldness of his thought and his groundbreaking ideas, but she was forced to admit that the master often lacked consistency and basic endurance. Some of his particularly exalted students claimed that Barthélemy had created the philosopher's stone, but this was most likely pure nonsense. Nothing in the surviving texts indicated such a thing. However, here and there Barthélemy's recipe was constantly mentioned, invariably with notes about vampires and their willingness to give literally everything for it.
‘You said you saw it, that you read it in a book,’ Dracula said.
Agatha shuddered, waking from her thoughts.
‘That was a long time ago.’
In an old library, half-destroyed by damp, in a house that had long since been abandoned. Agatha had gone there hoping to speak with an elderly professor whose works she had come across in scientific journals. She had hoped to discuss the properties of sulfur and copper with him. But when she reached the half-forgotten house in the wilderness, it turned out the old man had died two years earlier – the locals weren't sure exactly when – he had been a hermit and wouldn't let anyone in. Ever since the professor's passing, the house had stood locked, exposed to the rain and wind. For a few hard coins, a thief broke the lock for her, and Agatha spent several hours among the professor's books, trying to figure out which of them could be salvaged. Finally, having selected three nearly intact volumes, she left the house.
‘I'm not even sure what book I saw. And whether it actually contained Barthélemy's recipe. Maybe I just made it all up in hindsight.’
Or maybe not. She remembered the large tome and its damp pages. An image of grapes around the edge and a bookplate in the shape of a green lion. A few words from the introduction that she remembered, and – in the middle – the recipe.
Agatha had studied vampires for many years. She knew that among them, Giovanni Barthélemy's recipe was practically a sacred legend, since it promised to quench their thirst.
Barthélemy wasn't a magician. His potion couldn't free vampires from blood. But whoever could prepare it would stop being driven mad by its taste and smell, would stop desperately needing it. For them, it would become just food.
Dracula could experiment as much as he wanted with the merchant from Bistritz and others like him, but as long as he depended on blood, it was pointless. Sooner or later, his self-control would crack.
‘I need that recipe,’ Dracula said.
‘I know,’ Agatha snapped.
Dracula stood by the table, examining a page torn from some ancient book.
‘Even if I saw it,’ she repeated, ‘I don't remember everything.’
‘Because I know,’ she shrugged. ‘On the other hand,’ Agatha considered. ‘Maybe you're right. I remember the first three components. And then a space, and then four more. We can try different combinations... If we think logically –’
‘This will take a long time,’ Dracula said. He put the sheet of paper aside. Walking over to Agatha, he stood behind her and squeezed her shoulders. ‘I need to know what you know.’
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked cautiously, deliberately calm.
‘Right now, – only for the recipes for alchemical heating and the splitting of blood products.’ Dracula leaned over. ‘How the heart beats. That's the hardest part.’ She heard a sad smile in his voice. ‘After so many years as a military leader, fighting and winning, losing, and then becoming a vampire... I still haven't learned to calmly kill unarmed people. A pounding heart always gets in the way. That's why I make them sleep.’
‘Don't be afraid, Agatha,’ Dracula said.
‘I'm not afraid,’ Agatha replied, trembling with fear.
‘I won't kill you. I won't even hurt you. I need to see that recipe. We could try different options until the end of time and still get nowhere. Believe me or not, I know a thing or two about this too. Perhaps you read it and misunderstood. Perhaps you saw it but didn't understand what it was. But I can't be sure until I see it for myself.’
Agatha closed her eyes. She inhaled and exhaled.
He moved closer, pressing himself against her. Agatha felt his lips touch the top of her head. He brushed her hair back from her left shoulder.
‘You know, it's similar... to what you came here for. A little,’ he said conciliatorily, when Agatha twitched, trying to break free. ‘How the heart beats,’ he repeated.
Agatha cursed werewolves and sex-obsessed vampires with all her might.
‘Do you want to know how my heart beats?’ he asked suddenly. He turned her around and looked into her eyes.
‘And you… is it even… does it?’ Agatha was surprised.
‘Much slower than human hearts, but yes. I'm old, Agatha,’ he laughed. ‘My habits date back to the fourteenth century. Breathing is one of them.’
Agatha reached out and gently placed her hand on his chest.
At first, it was quiet under her palm, but after half a minute – maybe more – Agatha felt a pulsation. And then silence again. Then another beat. She stood, mesmerized, listening to the beating of someone else's heart.
Agatha had always imagined that a vampire bite... should be different somehow. At least, she thought, as she was lifted and carried somewhere, in her fantasies it seemed more like an attack.
‘You fantasized about bites?’
‘You monster. Get out of my head.’
‘That was rude. I'm searching, don't disturb me. There's so much forbidden literature here. Oh, and the Marquis de Sade? Agatha!’
‘Just a little more. I found it. Respiră, dragă**.’
Agatha opened her eyes. She was lying on the sofa. Dracula was standing by the table, his back to her.
Rising, Agatha tidied her hair and reached for the open wound. But she felt only a small scar – if she hadn't known what had just happened, she might not have noticed it.
‘How did it heal so quickly –’
‘And how do I make people dream? How do I discover the stories hidden in blood? It's all a mystery.’
‘Which is waiting for its discoverer.’
‘Agatha, you are charmingly curious. I would say innocent, but –’
‘Not a word about de Sade.’
‘Did you manage to read the recipe?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Dracula replied.
‘Did you understand how to prepare the potion?’
‘I think so. But I'll need some time.’
She nodded. She touched the scar on her neck again – and felt herself blush under his knowing gaze.
‘Not a word,’ she repeated.
Dracula shrugged again and returned to his notes.
Agatha sat in her room in the castle, trying to write. After starting and abandoning another page halfway through several times, she put her pen down in frustration.
This wasn't her room at all, Agatha thought angrily. It was merely a temporary refuge the Count had kindly provided her with. A place to rest and work, to pass the time until... Well, until they finished all their business.
Agatha frowned. That was the problem. When she had arrived here three weeks ago, she couldn't have imagined how it would all end.
She looked at the sheet of paper on which Barthélemy's formula was scrawled.
A week after Dracula had retrieved the recipe from Agatha's mind, he had managed to perfect the formula, eliminating all the potion's flaws and side effects. He planned to test samples in the next day or two.
This meant their deal – and her stay in the castle – was coming to an end.
Agatha, don't kid yourself, she thought, wincing wearily. This means you'll have to sleep with him.
She picked up her pen again and began mindlessly scribbling across the page.
How easy it had been for her to come up with this whole plan. When you're facing death, you don't think long. You just desperately search for a way out.
It had been so easy to decide – a whole lifetime ago.
Agatha threw down her pen, tore out the page, and crumpled it. Damn that Barthélemy formula.
It's one thing to sleep with a stranger you've never met. An unpleasant reality, nothing more. Even if it's your first time.
It's quite another to sleep with a man with whom you've shared breakfasts and late-night debates in the library, with whom you've searched for solutions to difficult problems, with a man who's teased you. You know what he believes, how he's surprised and saddened, what he likes in clothes, what he looks like in the morning.
Dracula could be annoying, stubborn, and strange. He could say terrible things, mock her best intentions, test her patience, and bite her. But Agatha was forced to admit: he had become her friend.
Dinner passed in silence. Agatha chewed dry lamb, gloomily contemplating the future. Her thoughts stretched out inside her like a shoal of sluggish fish. Too much had accumulated within her, especially regarding Dracula. Glancing briefly at him, she realized he had long since stopped chatting, entertaining her with historical anecdotes, and was watching her intently, as if waiting for something from her.
It wasn't just that she was sad their contract was coming to an end. It wasn't just what she felt for him.
And it hung in the air, like the sharp scent of ozone.
She had to ask about this sometime.
Agatha stared down at the table.
‘Admit it, all this time you…’
She fell silent. If she was wrong, her question would be even more foolish than it felt now.
She raised her head and stared at him. Dracula looked at her calmly and silently.
He seduced her. Consistently and deliberately. When he called her to dinner, when he worked, when he teased her, when he asked for help, when he bit her. Especially when he bit her.
Agatha looked at him silently.
‘Would you prefer if I pounced on you like your werewolf, gnawed off your virginity, and disappeared into the darkness? Violence is not my style, Agatha.’
‘Did you learn this from Goethe?’ she finally managed.
‘From the Turks. They're great masters of more than just torture.’ He grinned. ‘You know, in the library of Mehmed the Conqueror – or rather, his father – I read in a treatise that a girl won't become a woman until she wants to.’
He looked at her, tilting his head.
‘That virginity can't be taken,’ Dracula spread his hands. ‘A mad dervish,’ he smiled. ‘That was the name of its author. At least, that's what I remember from the inscription on the cover. It said,’ Dracula closed his eyes, ‘that like a thief who sneaks into a house at night, you can steal whatever you want while you're sleeping with a girl. But nothing you take will truly be yours. And therefore, in a sense, it will remain hers.’
‘Oriental delights,’ Agatha muttered. ‘We made a business agreement.’
‘And I will fulfill it. Especially since you're ready.’
She jumped up and rushed to the door. Embarrassment and anger drove her forward – at him, for guessing her doubts and fears, at the situation she found herself in, and at herself – for him being right.
‘I didn't mean to offend you,’ Dracula said behind her. Agatha froze. ‘I just wanted to say that I'll be waiting for you this evening.’ A pause. ‘Will you come?’
‘I will. And if it comes down to it,’ she paused, ‘Arabic vignettes don't excite me. Remember that, Count Dracula.’
As luck would have it, Agatha thought wearily, making her way through the castle corridors toward Dracula's chambers. Of course it's raining. She glanced at the windows, where streams of water were pouring. All that was missing was thunder. And lightning. Then this whole drama would reach its climax.
She stopped at the door and knocked. There was no answer. Shrugging, Agatha pushed the doorknob and entered.
Agatha had never been here before. She stood, taking in the bulky antique furniture, the candles in the brass candelabras, and the thick curtains on the windows. Her gaze darted to the fire in the fireplace. An abandoned book lay in a chair nearby. The room felt free of dampness, and the sound of the rain was distant and almost comforting.
‘Agatha, is that you?’ Dracula's voice called. As if it could be anyone else, she thought irritably. ‘Come in, I'm in the bathroom.’
That was all she needed. Agatha walked around the bed, hidden in the alcove, and saw another door. Opening it, she found herself in a room filled with steam from floor to ceiling.
Almost the entire room was taken up by a copper bathtub on lion's paws. Its two edges, slightly elongated and rounded, made it resemble a boat or a ship sailing in the fog.
The bathroom had clearly been recently installed – like everywhere else in the castle, it had rough stone walls, a narrow window to Agatha's right resembled a loophole, and the faucets and pipes looked slightly out of place, squeezed into a medieval setting.
Dracula stood behind the bathtub, his back to Agatha, dressed in a dark velvet robe.
He turned when she appeared.
‘I didn't mean to disturb you,’ Agatha said. ‘I must have arrived too early.’
She glanced at the door and gazed at the bathtub, filled with fragrant, hot water.
‘You're just in time,’ Dracula responded. ‘Check the temperature,’ he asked.
‘Check the temperature. I'm not sure it's comfortable for a human.’
Very slowly, Agatha approached the bathtub and dipped her right hand into the water.
The water was warm and scented with herbs. Agatha recognized lavender, fennel, and rosemary.
Straightening up, she looked at Dracula.
Shaking her head, Agatha stepped back slightly.
She silently watched as Dracula shed his robe and, completely naked, climbed into the bathtub.
Never having seen a naked man, never having undressed in front of anyone, Agatha stood there, feeling her cheeks burn. Then she turned away and unbuttoned her dress.
Leaving the dress lying on the floor, she pulled off her nightgown and turned to face Dracula. She wanted to close her eyes. But instead, Agatha sighed and climbed into the tub.
The water warmed her frozen feet, which hadn't warmed up in the castle, even in their shoes or woolen stockings. The warmth rose to her knees and above, meeting the heat within.
Dracula sat leaning back against the edge of the bathtub. When Agatha stepped inside, he raised his hand and offered it to her. Agatha took it, and in a second they were face to face.
The scent of lavender and rosemary assaulted Agatha's nostrils. Everything around her was warm – the water, his body.
She sat right between his legs.
Agatha silently looked into his eyes, trying not to think about what lay beneath the water. While he undressed, she had seen enough. She watched him take a washcloth from the nightstand next to the bathtub, dip it in the water, and lather it.
He started with her shoulders and neck, moved lower, and lightly ran the washcloth over her chest. Sliding it behind her back, he pressed harder. Closing her eyes, Agatha surrendered to the feeling the soft fibers gave her – calm, measured, and warm.
‘The mad dervish,’ she heard Dracula's quiet voice, ‘believed that ablution is the key to heaven.’
‘What can you expect from a pagan? All they want is enjoyment.’
‘It's true. The Ottomans revere pleasure as the highest ideal of life, its foundation. They rejoice in everything – peace and harvest, love and faith, childbirth and war.’
The sponge ran down Agatha's spine, sank beneath the water, and rubbed her lower back. It slid into the hollow between her buttocks. This shameless, simple gesture made Agatha flush – and she opened her legs.
His hand immediately moved lower and covered her burning core.
‘Te rog lasă-mă,’*** he said, gently moving his hand.
And yet she closed her eyes. Leaning back, she found support with her back and spread her knees wider.
‘Bine,’**** he smiled. ‘In the sweet thicket I will find my refuge.’
Bitter. Sweet. The words lost their power. He caressed her until she exhaled, shuddering, splashing water, and screaming.
Opening her eyes, she saw him close again. Leaning over her. And the time had come.
She bent her legs and hugged him around the waist.
‘Respiră, iubirea mea, relaxează-te.’*****
The water surged, and Agatha screamed.
* My heart, my heart. (German)
** Breathe, darling. (Romanian)
*** Please allow me. (Romanian)
***** Breathe, my love, relax. (Romanian)
