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The boy grew up lonely, in perpetual darkness and a huge echoing castle, but he had many lessons and many teachers.
With the wolves he learnt the strength of his muscles. How to be quick and run, how to roll on his back and kick with his legs. From the rats he learnt the secret pathways through the castle, places not even Sir knew were connected because he was too big and didn't listen to the rats. From the shadows he learnt how to disappear and go unseen, even though the boy himself didn't cast a shadow.
Once, there was a skinny black cat in the castle. No one but the boy knew it was there, because it knew how to use the shadows too. It was the cat that taught the boy how to stalk the birds that made nests on the battlements. The boy watched as the cat hunched down low and moved slowly, slowly, freezing when the starling looked at it, until it pounced and the bird became a corpse. The boy saw how the cat ripped flesh with its needle teeth and exposed that sweet warm blood. But of course, the boy had already learnt that lesson long ago.
There were other lessons too. Lessons with Sir.
Sir’s favourite lessons too teach were on propriety and history. The history lessons were taught in the library. The boy would sit at Sir’s feet, and listen to stories of battles and rulers from long ago. Sir would often stop these stories and instruct the boy to repeat what he has been told, to give explanations for why each battle tactic worked. Sir was most pleased when the boy recited the violent punishments enacted on those who had dared rebel against the Dracula family. Sir's pointed smile stretched whenever the boy talked of beheadings and bodies broken on the ramparts as examples to the frightened people below.
The lessons on propriety were far less interesting to the boy, but Sir was delighted to see how he would hold himself in ways that were Proper, and recite the endless rules of etiquette that Sir had instructed him in. These rules were important, somehow, though the boy could never figure out how. He had never before been to a bank, or purchased a train ticket, or accompanied a young woman to the opera, but Sir made certain that he would know how to act correctly should the situation ever occur.
“Excellent, pet,” Sir said. He always called the boy pet. Sir stood, gathering his cloak and the shadows around him. The boy tried to imitate him, but the shadows didn't move for him the same way.
“Are you hungry?” Sir asked.
The boy had learnt that the correct answer was always, always, yes.
“Then let us go up together.”
Sir took the boy's wrist, stretching the boy's arm over his head and walking briskly through the castle. It hurt, but the boy knew better than to struggle.
The castle was the boy's home, and he knew it well, but there were two places he could not go without Sir, because there were locked doors in between. Up to the tower for Papa, and down to the crypt for Mama. Locked doors stood between the boy and his parents, and they only opened for Sir.
Papa's room was in the north tower. It had a window and candles and no coffin, just a small bed on the floor and a table and chair that he sat in to do his reading and writing. Papa always had blankets around his shoulders and over his lap, even when it was warm and summer, Papa had his blankets.
Sir released the boy's wrist, but the child waited until Sir nodded before he dived towards Papa on the bed, wriggling under the blankets and waking Papa up with a soft gasp. Papa's hand came to the boy's back, holding him close as he sat up and leant against the wall.
The boy put his hands on Papa's chest, feeling Papa’s strange warmth through the thin shirt and he crawled his way to comfortably sit in Papa's lap.
“I missed you, Papa,” the boy said.
Papa breathed deeply before he spoke, every time, but his voice was slow and quiet. “I missed… you too… Sweetheart.”
“I found some black hair in a cobweb in the hall today,” the boy said. “Do you think my cat is still alive?”
Papa stroked the boy's hair. “Perhaps she is. Have you left… some water for her?”
“Now, now, pet,” Sir said. “You know why we're here. Hurry along.”
The boy turned his red eyes from Sir to Papa. The boy didn't want to feed yet. Papa would talk to the boy before he had his feed, but afterwards was always tired and quiet. He had to remember his manners, always. He didn't snatch. It's rude to snatch. But he must obey Sir.
The boy waited, glancing between the two men nervously, when finally Papa withdrew an arm from his blankets and held it out to the boy. The boy sunk his teeth into the soft flesh of his Papa's inner wrist.
Blood burst into the boy's mouth, warm and rich, and Papa made a choked sound.
“That's it, pet,” Sir said, looming large like a mountain. “Aren’t we kind to you? Don't you have all you need?”
After a few long minutes, the boy pulled away, licking the open wound. “I'm done, Sir,” he said.
“Nonsense, you are a growing boy,” Sir answered. “Take more.”
But as Papa raised his arm again, a ruckus of sound came up from the courtyard. A whinny and the sound of smashing wood. Sir went to the window. “Damned beast,” he growled. Papa laughed but it was hollow like an empty pot.
“Stay here,” Sir said, and he changed and was gone through the window.
Papa's wrist had stopped bleeding, and the boy didn't want to open him again. With his other hand, Papa stroked down the boy's back.
The boy raised his own arm towards Papa’s mouth. “It’s your turn, Papa. Aren't you hungry?”
“I don't-” Papa gently put the boy's arm down. “I have… different needs. My energy… comes from elsewhere.”
“Really?” The boy asked. “Where?”
“Mmm…” Papa leaned his head back against the wall, his strange blue eyes on the window. “Sunlight.”
That was the most absurd thing the boy had ever heard. “Sunlight! No!”
“That’s not all,” Papa said. “I also eat kisses.”
Papa took the boy's arms and pressed his lips all over his hands. “There. Now I am strong.”
The boy laughed, tickled and joyous.
“What else, Papa?”
“Grains, fruit.”
The boy tried to imagine it, and laughed again. “Are you a bird?”
“I might be a bird,” Papa said. “What would I do… if I was a bird?”
“You would build a little nest from sticks,” the boy said authoritatively. “You could put it in the rafters right there. See?”
The boy pointed upwards, but Papa’s eyes had drifted shut. Papa hummed in unseeing agreement, slumped against the wall. Once Papa fell asleep he hardly ever woke up.
“And you would fly!” the boy said loudly.
It worked, Papa's eyes slid open a little. They glinted an unnatural blue.
“Fly?”
“You would fly out the window and sing!” the boy said. “You would sit in trees and eat your fruit. And you would come back to me every night and sit on my shoulder and never leave me.”
“You've learnt… a lot from the birds,” Papa said. “Have… have you learnt from the lizards?”
“Lizards, Papa?” the boy asked.
“Yes, sweetheart. How they climb.” Papa stretched out his pale hand, fingers spread wide. “My window is always open… for you.”
The boy frowned at the strange words, but before he had a chance to ask, the mountainous shadow loomed over them again.
“Your time is up, Jonathan,” Sir said.
“Please.”
Papa always said that. Please. Just please. He never said what he begged for, because Sir always shook his head.
“Come now, pet,” Sir said. “We can't keep Papa from his duties. He does very important work here. He doesn't want you bothering him further. Come along.”
Another thing the boy had learnt. Obey Sir, always.
He saw Papa's heartbroken face as the door locked between them, and knew that Papa wanted more than anything to have more time with him, more kisses.
And he learnt one more lesson.
The Count lied.