R. M. Renfield

By Jessica Lake

“Renfield!”

Within the beat of a hummingbird’s wings, Renfield was at his master’s side. This in itself was unremarkable. It is expected: a valet anticipates his better’s every need. What was remarkable was the man’s transformation over the many years. Renfield had so closely aligned himself that he was the reflection of his master captured in an unseen mirror.

“My man, please fetch two glasses of Drakontos Haima.”

A valet is a gentleman’s gentleman. The man must always remain unruffled and impeccably attired. As the master’s custom was to rise only after sundown, Renfield was attired in evening dress.

In keeping with valet tradition, he wore a black frock coat with a waistcoat, paired with black trousers. He always buttoned it to the top, giving him a martial mien. Beneath the black coat, a cotton shirt as white as snow. Pressed and starched, it served him like a second skin. His cuffs darted in and out, emphasizing the marvel of his hands at work or rest. Lastly, black silk wound round his neck, finished with a modest bow.

“There you are, my lord, exactly as you prefer.”

Here, the valet’s manner of dress presented a delightful paradox. His decorum was meant to reinforce the manly dignity of his lord while not distracting eyes from his person.

Here, it was an impossibility.

The first oddity was that he wore a maid’s cap. The scant strands that escaped its confines were radiant and jet. The cap barely constrained the many coils beneath it. Surely, if released, his hair would cascade to the floor.

Renfield was an enchantment.

What remained man was a youth carved from alabaster. His expansive and almond-shaped eyes were twin emeralds void of jardins. His attire embraced a stature neither manly nor mature; rather, it was that of a boy of striking beauty. His grace was singular and effortless as a prima ballerina, his deportment the envy of any ingénue.

“Your glass, Sword of God.”

The Count took the petite glass and held it as if in toast. But he did not imbibe. Rather, he gazed in rapture at his workmanship. The master marveled at the ocean nymph that stood before him—that this seductress had once strutted up to his castle gates, a solicitor conveying real properties in London.

“Tonight, Io, is a grand surprise.”

Renfield detested surprises most of all. They reeked of the unknown. He was entirely unsuited to sudden caprice.

“Callisto, today is your birthday.”

“My lord, do not doubt me,” Renfield blushed. “My pleasure is in pleasuring you alone.”

“As is the proper station of a daughter.”

With unhurried grace, the Lion of Wallachia, scourge of the Turk, brushed aside a lock of hair that had strayed from beneath the valet’s cap.

“But as well, we each have a day of birthing—and a birth mother. Mine, I loved dearly.”

Renfield remained still and breathless, as a rabbit might beneath the gaze of a raptor. His master loved to bait his traps with kindness. Surely, he deserved no such thing.

“Leda,” Dracula cooed, “how old are you?”

Autobiographical questions were what he dreaded most. Any recollections had withered ages ago. He was a man shorn of a past or a future. He was steadfast only in the now.

The Count’s tone and manner of speech were preternatural. It was a voice that could pose as anyone a soul loved or feared, an address such that no matter what was asked, you obeyed.

“Hand of God, I—”

“A toast,” the Sword of God grinned. He handed his opus magnum the second glass. “Let us drink to your birthday—and a long life.”

They drank in unison. The brew tasted unctuous and heady. The valet’s gut revolted at its assault. The Count began to circle his treasure—the artist doting on the perfection of his living statue.

“Once, a traveler with human ambition suffered through the Carpathian Mountains. Hope and persistence brought him hither, there to my castle gate. He astounded me. This pup—barely weaned from his mother. Yet so certain. Certain of his fate. Certain of his fiancée Alana waiting at home in England. Certain as I had once been, till a certain God tore my wife from my grasp.

“We grew close.”

“It was that boy who conveyed Carfax Abbey over to me. And it was that same boy who watched over me on that tempestuous voyage. After arriving in London, I thought, ‘Were I to strip this modern Job of his world? And fatten the piglet upon fear, shame, pain, and pestilence until he tore at his own throat? Would such a wretch love me? With a love that would remain evergreen?’”

“Where is he now, my Lord?” Renfield cursed himself. Penance would be stern today.

“Oh, he died years ago.”

For a space, there was only the night.

“Europa, I have had so many brides over long centuries. Yes—they denied me nothing. And yes, their youth and beauty were nonparallel. And yet… I grew weary of each. Each a maiden of happenstance. Uncivilized. Uncultured. A wild rose can never equal the damask.

“And so I labored as Pygmalion labored. A labor of love. I saw the beauty imprisoned within your warm flesh. With each cut, I removed that which was not my Galatea. My dearest wife,” the Count purred softly, “I am humbled that I should sculpt such beauty from mere stone. You are the testament of my artistry.”

The Savior of Christendom laid his ear upon the soul’s beating heart.

“Do you love me? Do you worship me? Lover, would you die for me?”

Renfield felt the worn stone handle of Drakon in his grip. A hallowed relic of the Count’s lineage passed down through bloodstained generations. So many memorable hours the man and knife had spent in communion. At the brink of death, the blade had tutored him in the labors of love.

The valet sang his swan song for the in a polished countertenor.

Come Death— Sweet Death—

Hasten down your chariot.

My errant love, I must confess:

Long have I pined for your caress.

My flesh is soft, my figure full—

Come and take me, Cupid’s fool.

In my mind’s eye oft have I seen

Your gaunt form in love’s dark dream.

You are jet from crown to toe,

An Angel, bred of silence and snow—

But it’s no boast when I dare say

I could still your silence and fire your clay.

This I swear—for I am no liar:

Let me be the kindling of your incubus fire,

And you the spark of succubus desire—

We’ll set the grave alight with lust entire.

And for all this I ask a single boon:

Take me now, though it be too soon.

Why wait until my beauty’s fled?

What pleasures can I offer when nearly dead?

Best to take me while youth’s sweet song

Still flows from these lips—full and strong.

Lips that hunger—lips that seek

To bring you pleasures, and not to speak.

My nipples grow tender for your teeth,

And between my thighs, my ardor weeps.

Dearest love, join me in the grave—

And bestow on me the death I crave.

Tarry not, my love—come, let’s wed:

An earthen grave for our wedding bed.

With you above and I below,

You will grow warm, whilst I grow cold.

Then every thrust that I invite

Will swell and stir desire’s delight—

Until your labors bring release,

And in your climax, I find peace.

And the Englishman slit his throat in a single motion without hesitation.

The warmth of blood gushed from the gash at his Adam’s apple. The man swooned and collapsed backward. The valet was dead before his head pounded the floor.

In hours Renfield resurrected, besting Jesus by days. He wept to see his finery spent. Once sensible, he worked his way up to his wobbly shanks.

“I gave you my blood. Freely, without bound,” giggled the Count. “You are my legacy to this wicked world.”

“Master—” Finally, the word escaped Renfield’s lips. It was the wail of a vixen gnawing at the leg that held her captive.

A subtle gesture and the Count silenced him.

“Tonight you are reborn as Galatea. Take what you fancy from my wife’s finery and jewelry. I want you gone this very night.”

With a voice smooth as silk and sharp as salt, the Count continued.

“In truth, I have grown tired of you. I forgive you, as you awakened the artist in me. But an artist lives to create. And you, heavenly Galatea, are finished.”

Galatea slipped through the servant's outer gate. A dense fog wrapped everything. It dimmed and dampened the streets of Hampstead. Absent volition, desire forgotten, Galatea was without a compass. She stood an unmatched beauty in the blackness.

In time, two things came to her.

She was hungry— And loved children.