Chapter Text
It might have surprised Renfield to know that his master—the great, the immortal, the one and only Count Dracula—sometimes spied on him while he was doing quite mundane things. Shopping for toiletries, for instance. Or eating a sandwich. Or sleeping.
Dracula would watch through the eyes of one of his animal familiars, which were plentiful (bats, of course, but also pigeons and rats, which were more useful during the daytime) as Renfield sat alone in a corner booth in some fly-infested New Orleans diner, hunched over, avoiding eye contact with everyone around him as he spooned cream of tomato soup into his mouth.
Of course, Dracula could also hijack his servant’s vision when need be. But sometimes he preferred to look on from the outside.
He watched him not for any real purpose, at least none that he could’ve described. If pressed, he might have said he was bored. The blessing and the curse of immortality was time. Time, time, time, time, time, like a thread pulled from a sweater that never stopped unraveling. Even the rush of feeding started to dull, after a few centuries. Lately, he’d found himself gripped by a different hunger, one he could not name—a restlessness, an itch. It would flare up and recede, seemingly at random. Curiosity, perhaps.
Who are you when you aren’t attending my needs, Robert Montague Renfield?
As it turned out, Dracula’s familiar was a rather dull and predictable little man—one who went for long, aimless walks with his gaze on his shoes, who would stop and sit on benches and stare into space, or pause to observe an ant crawling over the sidewalk. Watching Renfield was like watching a turtle in an aquarium. There wasn’t much point. And yet Dracula kept doing it.
That was how he found out about the support group.
He watched Renfield disappear into the building. He inched closer in the form of a rat, nose aquiver. He avoided direct telepathic eavesdropping, because Renfield had become attuned to such things over the decades and would notice his presence. And as Dracula listened, curiosity turned to bewilderment, and then to disbelief, and then to a rage which burned like holy water.
To see Renfield sitting among those bleating sheep airing out their petty grievances, nodding along with their stories, eating their stale blueberry muffins and drinking their watered-down-gasoline coffee, was bad enough.
And then he began to talk. To share vague, carefully edited stories about his “toxic relationship” with his “narcissistic boss.” And the sheep bobbed their heads and baaed and murmured sympathetically and burbled mantras about self-esteem and taking back power.
But most maddening of all was when Renfield painted Dracula himself as some sort of troubled, lonely soul.
“I know that he’s in pain, too,” Renfield would say. “That’s what makes it so difficult to leave him. Because…I know it sounds absurd, but I’m genuinely not sure if he would survive.”
“Even if that’s true, you can’t make yourself responsible for someone else’s survival,” Mark would reply in his lisping, cooing, imperious little voice. “We can help each other. We can listen. But we’re all the captains of our own ship. If he’s really so dependent on you, then he needs to grow as a person. You aren’t doing him any favors by enabling him.”
“It’s an unusual situation. He has, uh…medical needs. I’m a—a caretaker, of sorts, as well as an employee.”
“It was like that with my mother,” one of the sheep—an older black woman named Beth—piped up. “She had a stroke. Couldn’t walk. She treated me like shit. Called me the worst things. Threw an ashtray at my head once, hard enough to split the scalp and send me to the ER. But how could I leave her, in that condition?”
“It’s always tough when medical needs are involved,” Mark said, “and hostility toward caretakers isn’t uncommon. When someone’s angry or in pain, they aim those feelings at the closest target…and sadly, that’s often the person who’s looking after them. But that doesn’t change the basics. We all deserve respect. We all have the right to draw a line in the sand and say, ‘I won’t be treated like this.’ And if they’re a danger to your physical or mental health, you still have a right to walk away.”
Through his observations, Dracula also now had an explanation for the lower quality of food he’d been receiving from his servant lately. Renfield was hunting down the abusers of his newfound “friends” in the group. And he limited himself to the truly nasty and dangerous ones. The blood of cruel people always tasted sour.
Oh, and the arrogance of these cretins, treating Renfield as though he were just another disgruntled employee or neglected lover or abused son, daring to give him advice, encouraging these foolish, rebellious thoughts in his muddled head, tampering with a bond that they did not and could not possibly understand.
Of course, they did not know. They had no idea who he really was. But it enraged him, nonetheless. This could not be tolerated.
The temptation to act was powerful. He could show up in dramatic fashion. He could put on a show and watch those livestock shiver and whinge and piss themselves. He could drink in the hot stink of their fear and devour them all before Renfield’s horrified eyes.
He came close. And what stopped him was only a tiny, cold voice, deep inside, whispering: If you do that, you will lose him. Forever. He has forgiven much, but there are some things he would not forgive.
Why should Dracula care? Humans were cheap and plentiful. He could find another servant.
He has served you well for nearly a century. And the world is different now. Things are not so simple.
Renfield—much as it pained him to admit—would be difficult to replace. He could navigate the modern world in a way that Dracula could not, but he shared Dracula’s memories of a time before. A human who had been born into this new world could never understand Dracula’s needs and sensibilities in the same way.
And Dracula was still weak. Still recovering from his latest scuffle with the Church.
No—to attack now would be reckless. He needed to maintain secrecy. At least for a little while longer.
He would employ a different tactic.
* * *
Dracula drummed his long, sharp nails on the lacquered wooden tabletop of Renfield’s kitchen. He was tense—like a tiger crouched in the grass, like the hammer of a pistol pulled back to strike the firing pin. He glanced at the clock.
Renfield had gotten himself an apartment in this new city. That was not unprecedented; there were certain conveniences associated with him having his own place. But his past residences had always been bare and utilitarian. This one was…bright. Cheerful painted walls, self-help posters plastered over every surface, a cat calendar. Books from his support group lined the shelves. Dracula sneered. That man was like a sponge, soaking up the influence of whoever he came into contact with.
He leafed through one of the books—How to Defend Yourself Against a Narcissist—and snorted.
Oh yes, this needed to be nipped in the bud.
What’s keeping that little fool? The group session should be over by now. He considered briefly hijacking Renfield's vision to discern his location, then decided against it. He would prefer that his servant be caught off guard by his master’s sudden arrival.
Ah. There were his footsteps, now.
The door creaked open. Dracula sat up a little straighter, then forced himself to relax.
Renfield stepped into the room, his dark hair carefully combed, neater than usual. He was wearing a pastel sweater. His wide blue eyes—large and bright and restive, like a hare’s—briefly met Dracula’s gaze, then darted away. “Oh,” he squeaked. “Master, I, um. I didn’t—”
“Expect me?” Dracula smiled, showing all his fangs. “I thought I would drop in for a visit.” Fortunately, Renfield had purchased a welcome mat, which counted as an invitation to enter.
Renfield stank of adrenaline and nervous sweat, and his heart was beating faster than normal. Dracula could hear it from across the room.
“Sit,” Dracula urged, nodding to the chair across from him.
“I…” Renfield cleared his throat. “I realize you are probably expecting dinner.” His tone made it clear that he expected to be punished for not having a fresh corpse to offer.
Dracula did not respond at all; instead, he picked up a wine bottle—already uncorked—and poured a glass. He did not drink wine himself, of course—it tasted empty, dead and fetid, like all human food and drink—but it wasn’t for him. He pushed the glass across the table and said again: “Sit.”
Renfield hung back. “Is—is that an order?”
As a child—so long ago, now, that it felt like another life, another world—Dracula had had pet birds. He’d learned that if you held them too tightly, they would struggle and peck; worse, their fragile bones could snap. If you held them gently, they would struggle only briefly, then go still and passive as they realized the futility. If they were not in pain, if they sensed no danger, they would recognize a superior strength and instinctively submit. “It is a request,” he said.
Renfield took a few cautious steps forward, pulled up a chair, and sat.
“Try the wine. It was bottled in 1933. An excellent year.”
“I remember it.” Renfield gave him a small, nervous smile. It faded quickly. He didn’t reach for the glass. His hands were folded over each other on the table. His hands were clean, the nails neatly manicured. That was new. “The years blur together, don’t they?”
Dracula’s nostrils twitched. He could smell a human woman on Renfield’s skin. Rage briefly reared up; he clamped down on it and nodded. “We’ve been together for ninety of them, now. Longer than most humans have been alive.”
“Yes. The world has changed a great deal.”
“But we don’t change, my dear Renfield. Do we?”
Renfield took a breath. “Actually, I—I feel that I have. Changed, that is. A bit. I’ve been thinking.”
It felt as though he were building up to something. Some philosophical statement about the evolution of human rights. Best to head him off at the pass, to redirect the conversation.
Dracula smiled, showing only a hint of fang this time. “You and I change the way that mountains and continents change. Humans change like spring flowers. A brief burst of life and color, withering in the blink of an eye. We can appreciate flowers. Their beauty, their smell. But they have nothing to teach us.”
“I don’t know about that. I am human, after all.”
It was a small thing, but until recently, Renfield would not have contradicted him—not even mildly. Dracula raised one pale hand, reached across the table, and lay the tip of a sharp nail against his servant’s cheek. He heard the swift intake of breath, smelled the sour tang of fresh adrenaline in Renfield’s bloodstream. He trailed the talon slowly down to the human’s pale throat, watched the muscles move as he swallowed. He kept the pressure light, not quite enough to draw blood. “You have allowed yourself to forget. You are different from other humans. I made you different. You were reborn through me. A wolf cannot graze among cattle.”
The breath fluttered in Renfield’s throat. His pulse sped a little more.
Dracula straightened and pulled his hand back. “You still haven’t tried the wine.”
“Forgive me. I don’t mean to be rude. But I’m not really thirsty.”
Dracula considered pushing harder. But he only smiled, showing his fangs. “Your loss.”
He fidgeted, hands tangled together in his lap. “Master…”
“I know, Renfield.”
Renfield drew his breath in. His shoulders tensed beneath his ridiculous multi-colored sweater. “W…what do you mean?”
“The group. I know where you’ve been going. There is no need to be coy.”
“I…” He was blinking, lashes flickering rapid-fire up and down. A flush had risen into his pale cheeks. Dracula could practically hear the thoughts skittering around in his head, like roaches in an attic. “Are you angry?”
“Angry?” He chuckled. “Do you think it matters that much to me, how you fritter away your time among humans?”
Renfield’s brows drew together in confusion.
“They are nothing, these people,” Dracula said. “They are mere flickers. When they are rotting in the ground, when the bones of their children’s children are scattered, you and I will still be here.”
Renfield didn’t respond.
“Though, I am curious.” Dracula rose and stalked around the table, circling behind Renfield. He gripped Renfield’s shoulders, claws pressing in lightly. Renfield gulped. “What can those pitiful fools possibly offer you that I cannot?”
He was silent, staring straight ahead, breathing unsteadily.
“Renfield.” His grip tightened. “Answer me.”
“They are—they are kind, Master,” he whispered. “They listen to me. They make me feel…less alone.”
Alone. And what am I?
“It is an illusion. A game. They understand nothing.” He leaned down, until his lips moved close to Renfield’s ear. “I’ve watched a few of those meetings, you know. I’ve listened to the stories you tell. About your ‘narcissistic boss.’”
Renfield sucked the air in through his teeth.
“Oh yes, Renfield. Your narcissistic boss who lives ‘rent free,’ as they put it, in your head—who could destroy you with a snap of his fingers.” One talon scraped lightly over Renfield’s Adam’s apple, trailed down to rest in the hollow between his collarbones. “To them, that is metaphor. A fanciful turn of phrase. Not so for you, is it? You pretend. This—” he plucked at the sweater—“is a costume.” His hand crept down, under the hem of the sweater, nails scraping over his stomach. He felt the muscles contract. He knew that Renfield was remembering how recently Dracula had slit him open and then healed him instantly as he lay gasping like a gutted fish on the floor. He circled his navel idly with one talon.
Renfield’s eyes were wet now. His breathing quickened. He pushed himself to his feet abruptly, tearing himself away. The chair skidded. He backed away from Dracula, shoulders stiff. “I will no longer tolerate abuse,” he said in a high, tremulous voice.
Dracula stood motionless, arms at his sides, staring at him. “Need I remind you of the bargain we made?”
“I…” His face contorted. He looked away. “I know. I know I agreed to this. I’m your servant, and I chose this life for myself. I accept responsibility my own choices. But I’ve served you for ninety years now, Master, and I’ve asked for very little. I think I have the right to lay down some boundaries.”
“Boundaries. And what are these ‘boundaries’?”
“I—I don’t—I don’t want to kill innocent people. I won’t. I can find other ways to bring you your food.”
This was not going as smoothly as he had hoped. He’d thought he could apply a bit of pressure—squeeze a little, gently—and remind Renfield of his station. Again, he felt aggression welling up, the urge to seize what was his by force. His upper lip twitched and started to pull back from his teeth.
He could kill them. He could kill them all. Everyone Renfield cared about.
Again, that voice deep inside whispered: You will lose him.
So what?
He imagined a future without Renfield, and what came to his mind was a gray wasteland stretching on and on and on into infinity. No endpoint to the nothingness. No relief. An infinite oubliette. He could conquer the world. He could reduce all of humanity to his playthings. He could feed whenever he chose, on whoever he chose. But there would be no one to talk to.
Dracula felt something unexpected, then, an emotion he had almost forgotten, something animalistic; a cold flicker. Desperation. Fear.
No. No, no. He did not fear losing his servant. Absurd.
“I…” Renfield took another breath. He tangled his fingers together, then untangled them. “I know that it isn’t easy for you. Needing human blood to live. I know that it must be…lonely…”
“Lonely?” He laughed, a harsh, flat laugh. “You think I am lonely?”
Renfield flinched.
Dracula took a breath. He had lost control, for a moment. His control had been slipping for a while. Not good. “Oh, Renfield. You should know better. I have long since left those mortal feelings behind me.” He took a step closer to his servant, then another. Renfield backed away until his back was against the wall, and Dracula loomed before him, looking directly into his wide eyes, breathing in the smell of his sweat and deodorant and department store clothes, his soap and blood and the oat milk latte he’d had a few hours ago. “But you…” Dracula licked his teeth. “You are not so pure, are you? In spite of all your power, your immortality, your heart is still human. You still possess human hungers. Human weakness.” He continued staring directly into Renfield’s eyes. “Do you feel neglected, Robert?”
He hadn’t used Renfield’s first name in years. Decades. He wielded it very carefully, because he knew its effect.
Renfield blinked. His lips parted as he drew in a short, quick breath, and his pupils grew noticeably larger.
He was off-balance. Time to strike. Dracula raised a hand, ran his talons lightly through Renfield’s hair and caressed his cheek. Renfield’s eyes slipped half-shut. He started to pull away. He murmured a faint, “No,” a laughably feeble protest. Then he leaned into the caress, like a cat. A faint moan escaped his throat.
There you are.
As Renfield nuzzled into his palm, eyes soft and dazed, Dracula raised his other hand to continue stroking his hair. “Very good.” He leaned in, lips grazing Renfield’s throat, where the blood beat fast and hot beneath the surface. Already, Renfield was lost, shivering under his touch. Helpless.
So very weak. So predictable.
Deep within, Dracula felt a tension inside him easing. The support group, the self-help books—it was all a cry for attention, like a child acting out to test a distant parent. All Renfield needed was a reminder that there were rewards to being the servant of the world’s most powerful (and probably last) vampire. “Tell me,” Dracula said. “What is it that you require?”
Renfield blinked a few more times. The question seemed to confuse him. “Master?”
“You seem to feel unsatisfied with the state of your existence. So tell me how I can remedy that.” In the beginning, he had provided Renfield with all the fine things of higher society, had introduced him to a new, glamorous world. Though Dracula had to be far more careful these days, he still had considerable wealth squirreled away in various bank accounts under various names. He was royalty, after all. “I am offering you a gift, Renfield. Anything. Within reason, of course.”
Renfield bit his lower lip. His gaze shifted away. “I—I told you—”
“Yes. Your ‘boundaries.’ We will discuss that later. For now, tell me what I can give to you. There is no barrier to what money and power can obtain, in this world. Do you desire the company of a human female, perhaps?”
He flushed again. “No,” he whispered.
He raised his eyebrows. “Human male?”
“There—there is no one like that, Master.”
He was lying. There was someone. Dracula could smell her all over him, an impudent and skunky smell; he could smell the chemical shifts in Renfield’s body and brain that suggested the beginnings of infatuation. But that could wait.
“I want…”
Dracula waited.
He blurted out, “I want you to tell me something you like about me.”
Dracula stared, mouth open slightly. “Something I like,” he repeated flatly.
“Yes.” Renfield gulped. “S-something not related to the way I serve you. Something true.”
Dracula frowned. “What manner of game is this?”
“It isn’t a game. I would just like a compliment.”
“Flattery is a human contrivance. This is beneath you, Renfield.”
“You asked me what I wanted. This is what I want. I realize that I’m only a servant to you. I know you don’t consider me a friend. But there must be something. Some quality of mine that you enjoy or…admire. It doesn’t have to be deep. Just…anything.”
Dracula exhaled in exasperation.
“Is it really so difficult?”
“I’m thinking.”
I like how easy it is to manipulate you. No, that wouldn’t work. I like the way you tremble in fear at my displeasure. No, that wouldn’t do, either. You have a good eye for potential victims—no, he’d specifically said not related to servitude.
The silence stretched out. Renfield’s expression crumbled. “We’ve known each other for over ninety years,” he said. “Is there nothing?” He let out a strained laugh and shook his head. “God.” He put a hand over his face. “Well, I guess that tells me what I need t—”
“Your voice,” Dracula blurted out.
His mouth opened, then snapped shut. “My voice?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“What about it?” Renfield asked tentatively.
“It is…not unpleasant.”
He looked a little confused. “That’s all?”
What did he want, damn it? “I have grown accustomed to the sound of it. Were you never to speak in my presence again…I would find that unsatisfactory.”
Renfield stared at him with a strange, unreadable expression. “I…thank you, Master,” he murmured. He fussed with the sleeve of his sweater. “I, um. Maybe I’ll have a bit of that wine after all.” He drifted over to the table, picked up the glass, and took a swig. He inhaled some and broke down in a coughing fit.
He’d asked for a compliment, and now that Dracula had obliged him, he seemed nervous and flustered. Being praised, even half-heartedly and under duress, plainly made him uneasy; he was unused to it. And now he wouldn’t make eye contact. Silly creature.
It was one of the first things Dracula had noticed about him, when they met in Transylvania all those years ago—how lost he was, how restive and awkward, like a colt unused to its own limbs. He’d had no close friends. He hadn’t seemed particularly close even with his own family. He was intimidated by the responsibility of being a father and a husband, and he dealt with this by working abroad and avoiding his wife and child. Dracula could scarcely imagine how he had managed to woo and bed a woman. And in the long decades since, he’d had little in the way of human company. Renfield wanted to be liked, to be useful, but he curled in on himself like a pillbug when he was the focus of attention. And yet there was a certain brutal practicality and competence to him, a quickness of mind, an ability to act when called on. He had no use for himself, and so sought someone to make use of him. He had been born to be a servant.
“Robert.”
His pulse quickened audibly again. “Yes, Master?”
He brushed his knuckles over Renfield’s soft cheek and said, “I want you to bring one of them to me.”
Renfield went still. “You mean…”
“From your group. Choose one.”
His head jerked up. Panic flashed in his eyes. “Master, no. No, please. No. I won’t. Not them.”
“Not to kill. Just to taste. They won’t remember afterward. They won’t blame you. You can make up some story to explain the gaps. A night out drinking. Do this for me, my servant, and I will promise their safety.”
Renfield closed his eyes. He slumped, head bowed. “Meaning if I don’t do it, you will kill them.” His voice had gone flat. Wooden.
“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. I have no particular animosity towards them. But if their blood is pure…”
“I should have known,” he muttered.
“I need blood, Renfield. Young blood. Fresh blood. Life blood is best, but I can sustain myself with smaller amounts. For a while. They can spare a little.”
After a few seconds, Renfield whispered, “You promise you won’t hurt them? You promise that you will be…gentle?”
“You have my word.” He gave Renfield a fang-filled smile. “And a prince always keeps his word.” At Renfield’s silence, Dracula leaned in and whispered, close to his ear, “Compromise, Renfield, is the basis of a healthy relationship. Isn’t that so?” When Renfield’s muscles tensed, he chuckled. “I browsed through a few of your books, while I was waiting. Perhaps there is some wisdom in them, after all.”
In fact, he had decided, he was going to read them all. Renfield had been steeping himself in these modern concepts. They’d had a profound impression on him.
If Dracula was going to stay one step ahead, if he was going to keep his servant close and attentive to his needs, he needed to be able to speak the language.