Count Dracula

Drac had finally decided to up and leave the clinic. Upon returning home, he found a message on his phone from Mavis.

... Don't ask how he got the message. He not only hated using the phone, but he still wasn't sure why there was no operator on the other end of the line! It just helped so much!

But where there's a will there's a way and now he was trying to call Mavis back...

Well. Hmm. The Hotel must be busy if he had to leave a message!

Now he was sitting beside the phone waiting for a call back from Mavis to let him know the hotel wasn't on fire that she was fine.

Too bad he'd turned the phone off in his fiddling around. Any calls were going direct to voicemail.

... "Who filled my ice box with stale tacos?!"

While it wasn't unusual for Drac to be up so long after dawn, it was unusual for him to be up and not doing things, ordering staff about, yelling at suppliers, or placating guests.

No, Drac had stayed up late into Tuesday morning talking with a painting.

At first, Drac had assumed it was leftover effects of the wine or someone playing a trick on him - not that he could think of someone that would. Perhaps a gremlin in the walls? It was not real, in any case. His wife was dead and this was nothing but a well done painting he'd never known existed.

But all Monday listening to his dead wife's voice pleading for him to say something, he broke and answered her.

And then, the longer he spoke to it, the more the painting changed. From a fine portrait to a fully moving image of Martha, trapped behind an invisible wall and bound by a crumbling frame.

"I was cursed," Martha had sobbed when he finally woke on Monday night.

Instead of dying, she had somehow survived and was found in the rubble of the fire by looting villagers. "They trapped me in this painting. A prisoner, forced to watch over them for eternity."

Drac... Drac could feel the old resentment and hate returning as he heard the whole of her tale of imprisonment for the past 117 years.

"Don't cry my beloved." He raised a hand to try to cup her face, an instinctive move he'd thought long buried. A move that was stopped by the solid wall of magic that was the cursed painting.

He couldn't touch her. Still.

"Oh, my love." Martha's head tilted gently as she wiped her cheek with one hand, the other reaching to lay flat against her side of the magic wall. "I've so long thought you dead. They told me... So many times I have wished I died that night with you and Mavis."

The sunlight streaming through the drapes was what it took to get him to leave her just as far as his coffin, Tuesday morning.

And now, Tuesday evening, he was again staring at the wall. The painting, however, was nothing but a flat portrait. Nothing he said got a response and there was no sign of movement. Reaching out, he could feel the oils on the canvas. He'd lost her all over again.

"Sir? I've finished the cleaning and gathered your things for the dry cleaner." The hotel housekeeper returned to the main room of the suite where Drac was standing. "Your kitchen is stocked again. Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave? ...Sir?"

"Hmm?" Drac finally turned and acknowledged the woman. "No no. That is all. Thank you; you may go."

He sighed as he headed to his desk to start some work. Perhaps his 'conversation' with Martha had been a dream after all.

Only after the click of the suite door indicated that the Count was truly alone, though, did the voice come from the wall behind him:

"Drac?"

Owning a hotel full of monsters with varying personal needs meant he was on call 24-hours a day. But while Drac was used to being awake at odd hours, he'd always tried to keep a proper personal dining schedule for Mavis' sake; both Martha and he had agreed that gathering together as a family, at least at the table, was important in the development of a child.

And that schedule said that at this early hour all good and proper little vampires were either asleep or just waking up to breakfast. But since the island they'd moved to was operating on daylight hours, besides insisting that Mavis join him for meals at least once a week, Drac was slowly trying to adjust their meal times to match the islanders. Hence this confused mix of a meal before him.

The lights were out and the table was set with candles. Normal for any meal. The goblets were filled with NearBlood (with lots of pulp added plasma, since someone was still a growing vampire). Normal for the hour. The platters were piled high with wormcakes, omelettes, lizard and screamcheese sandwiches, fried scorpions, mouse jelly, and other foods that weren't really breakfast or lunch. Not normal at all.

Not. Normal.

Drac placed another wormcake on his plate and reached for the syrup with a small OCD-heavy sigh. Well... Maybe if he considered it brunch?

"So, Mouse. Tell me. How are you doing in classes? Are you making friends?"



[for callmemavy]