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I miss you. Words jotted down, only three, finite syllables to satiate the affection of eternity, slithering in his ribs, perched heavy on his stomach. They were written in haste, as all hidden things were meant to be, lost in some journal, only to be rediscovered years later, when the anguish of their finding would burn all the hotter, all the sweeter. Forgotten between lifetimes, between deadlines and breakfast, between all the mundane things of life, from triumph to loss.
He had found them, tucked within the secret niche of a diary, held first by his ancestor, then his grandfather –
And yet, the pages had not molded, only yellowed, crinkling between the knotted edges of his knuckles, whining the echoes of the sobs that must have accompanied each flick and curve of quill and pen.
I want you. Had they denied with the same vehemence? The same blind, hateful drive, as to bring about madness and despair? Surely this, not those thirsty, craven demons, were to blame for their demise?
He should have thrown it into the fire, heeded his better judgement, tossed the melancholy, unscented note into the fire where it belonged. Let it be ravaged by the flames that licked and warped the Count’s features, banished once more to that hellish plane. Why did he have to pay for their sins?
Where are you? He could not say ‘them’ and ‘himself’ anymore than he could say the sun was not a star, anymore than he could turn the axis of the earth, no more than a man could touch and smell and see true hatred and remain untouched again. He was his own undoing. He had been since the day Dracula had touched him, so many centuries ago, knowing and wanting, writhing with all the grace of a maggot in the festering remains of his own soul.
The Count had been spared the longing, the cruelty of half formed dreams, dissipating with dawn’s light. He had lived with such terrors, made close companions of his tormentors, till he knew their hands, their voices, and their terrible, terrible promises. Oh, temptation was a clever creature, for it needed no charlatan’s ploys: no drink, no touch, nothing but the resonance of a voice that struck and played every cord within his fragile spirit.
Lorrimer quivered in the early morning light, watching the sun crest the horizon in a wave of crimson and gold. The flecks of blood were still drying in the silver of his hair, his shirt sleeve torn and jagged, sticking to his skin. He winced at the tackiness, the sweat that made the cold wind blow over his flanks and lower back, between his shoulder blades, and up his nape. He grit his teeth to keep them from clicking, restraining his shudder to his chest, swallowing down a groan as he forced his throbbing knee to rise.
Please, forgive me. As god could not. As he never could himself. He would throw himself down, upon his mercy, over and over again, if he could just –
Victory had never tasted so bitter. Copper, under his tongue, the iron still clinging between his teeth, the acrid flavor of ash filling his lungs. Yes, the volcanic kind would clump within the moist cavern, turn to cement, fill the victim’s internal organs with stone. Would it be enough to crush his guts? To grind his bones? To pulverize him into pulp?
Perhaps such agony would be enough to fill the hollowness that stretched within his heart, through his spine, straight down to the ends of his toes, the tips of his fingers. The ice-laden air howled down, down through the caverns, over three-centuries old, carved by that sunlight and the iron candlesticks, emblazoned in his palms.
Lorrimer turned his head to the sky, the awful, painful jab from his neck reminding him of the blow he had sustained. He endured with a resilience honed by one, two, three men, the last – himself – now sitting on the twisted body of a church’s decomposing body. Yes, his grandfather lay, no longer even rotting, not three feet from him. The deep indigo of midnight was fading, the blood-laden ring around the moon evaporating in the sun’s glare, but he refused to glance at the name… The memory of man and fool who haunted him.
He was never one to be ignored.
I love you. For the man he loved, without coffin or home, robbed of all his riches and more.
“I hate you.” For his grandfather, his ancestor, and himself, thieves and liars and murderers.
He heaved a ragged, wet sigh, his ribs constricting with the sound, foretelling of the tears he would shed, of the sobs he had let pass far too many times. His gaze shifted, dragged to the stone face of his grandfather’s grave, solemn and empty, the lichen hanging over the name and date, the text that had been chiseled into the surface with such adoration. Lorrimer rose on unsteady legs, prying himself up to stagger to the granite, inhaling sharply to give no voice to the pain that wracked every inch of him.
“If he cannot rest in peace…” His lips pulled, fighting the tremble that would curl them, the dam that would break and swallow him whole. “Then neither do we.” He didn’t deserve to, none of them did…
Where was Abraham buried? He didn’t know. But Lawrence was in front of him, not even bone, not even dust, no longer even ash…
I have to work fast. Jess would return soon with the Inspectors…
Alucard was an inventive lad, if nothing else, the sledgehammer he had propped against his door living up to its intended use. He might not have gotten to do the deed, but Lorrimer saw no reason his last wishes shouldn’t be fulfilled. After all, living men had no use for graves.
His arms throbbed with the strain, muscles contracting, bunching and burning, hands clenching and unclenching rhythmically as he swung and swung and swung –
Crack. The border snapped off in one clean strike, taken apart by the spike at the head of the mace, specifically fashioned for tearing apart stone. Crunch. An immortal vampire, a boy less than half his age, would have made dust of it in less than a minute. Bang! But where was the repentance in that? Half of Lawrence’s name, decimated by a particularly vicious swing that stole his breath and tore his lungs. Screech! The metal dug deep, drawing a flicker of shining, burning stone from the interior, shaving off some part of ‘loving’ –
Sometimes, nothing broke, just a dent in the aged name and script, and then there were entire chunks bleeding apart, sundered open, hemorrhaging dust and stone.
“Grandfather!” Lorrimer heaved as he took a step back, mouth agape as he stared, wide-eyed and silent, at pile of rubble. There was still some of the stone, sunk deep into the earth, but who and what was buried there could never be discerned by a passerby ever again…
“Grandfather! What are you doing?!” Jess, grabbing his sleeve, the useless, limp and aching end of his arm. He stumbled back into her, the sheer thunder, the pounding and beating within his ribs reaching a crescendo, causing him to fall back into her, into the warm, dew covered grass beneath them. His face burned, tongue dry and hot, limbs shaking and twitching as he clenched his teeth.
“Stop this, grandfather, please.” Jess was clutching him, hands flitting over his face, his chest, supporting his shoulders so he rested against her.
Poor girl… They really needed to get her some proper clothes. It was far too cold out here and she really didn’t care for dresses unless she picked them our and they were in her color and –
“Professor Van Helsing!” He could hear the inspector’s voice, cutting through the war drum pressed to his ears, through Jess’s sweet murmurs, the crunch of his heals as he no doubt traversed the dangerous expanse of the half-demolished churchyard. “It’s alright, Professor.” His assurance sounded distant, a forced phrase meant to assuage family and victim.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get him – “
He drifted off, one hand limp and cold, holding the end of the hammer, and the other clutched atop his pounding chest in the palm of his granddaughter.