Dracula's Child Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Leave Us a Review

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Editor’s Introduction

  Prologue

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Part One: The Shadow Falls

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  From The Diary of Arnold Salter

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  From The Diary of Arnold Salter

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  From The Diary of Arnold Salter

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  From The Diary of Arnold Salter

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Part Two: The Shadow Grows

  From The Diary of Arnold Salter

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  From The Private Diary of Ambrose Quire,

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  From The Private Diary of Ambrose Quire,

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  From The Diary of Arnold Salter

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Diary of Ambrose Quire,

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Diary of Ambrose Quire,

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Diary of Ambrose Quire,

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Diary of Ambrose Quire,

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  From The Private Diary of Ambrose Quire,

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Diary of Ambrose Quire,

  Dr Seward’s Diary,

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  From The Diary of Arnold Salter

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Mina Harker’s Journal

  Part Three: The Shadow Claims Its Own

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  From The Diary of Arnold Salter

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  From The Diary of Arnold Salter

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Dr Seward’s Diary

  From The Private Journal of Maurice Hallam

  Jonathan Harker’s Journal

  Epilogue

  From The Diary of Quincey Harker

  Editor’s Postscript

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

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  Dracula’s Child

  Print edition ISBN: 9781789093391

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781789093414

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  www.titanbooks.com

  First Titan edition: May 2020

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © 2020 J.S. Barnes. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  For Heather

  ‘My revenge is just begun.

  I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side.’

  Count Dracula

  EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION

  The first dozen years of my life were spent in near-absolute ignorance of those bizarre and terrible occurrences which had immediately preceded my birth. Although my childhood was predominantly a happy one I was nonetheless consistently aware of the existence of some great unseen shadow, the details and particulars of which were kept from me at all times.

  The papers which follow make plain both the painful process of my enlightenment and the horrible reassertion of that murderous past which many close to me had long believed to have been forever buried. A number of the dramas and incidents which are described in this collection of journal entries, clippings, telegrams and letters may strike the doubtful as being at times at variance with the limits of twentieth-century belief. I give you my word, however, that every part of this narrative is accurate, authenticated and exact.

  You may also wonder why, at more than a decade’s distance, I have decided that this is the proper moment at which to prepare my account. For the time being, it must suffice to say that I have of late, against all hope and better judgement, become in awful increments persuaded that the spectre which for so long haunted my family may still in some form be with us, even as the whole of Europe cries out in pain and grief.

  Lieutenant Quincey Harker

  Dover

  13 October 1914

  PROLOGUE

  MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL

  6 November 1903. Many years have passed since last I thought to set pen to paper in this modest
journal of mine. In part, this apparent dereliction has been due to varied and hectic happiness, as our little family – Jonathan, Quincey and I – has grown and thrived. The demands of being both wife and mother have, quite naturally, kept me from daily composition.

  Yet there is an additional and more sober motive for my long silence. Namely, that I have come to associate the very business of diary-keeping with those events that overtook us more than a decade ago, which wrenched from us our dear friends, Lucy Westenra and the gallant American after whom our son was christened, as well as bringing us all into association with that implacable creature whom I shall certainly never name here.

  Those horrible months are not ones on which I have ever wished to dwell. For years, I have pushed them from my mind. I know that Jonathan feels as I do, though we have not spoken of it often, not, at least, since our boy was very small. For several years, we have preferred to look only at the present and towards the future; to speak of summer rather than of winter things.

  Yet the seasons cannot be held back for ever, any more than our history can be entirely hidden. I am afraid to say that it is tragedy which has occasioned this return to my journal – a tragedy which unfolded scant hours ago, at the finish of an evening which ought to have been marked only by good cheer, with generous merriment and quiet joy. The melancholy truth of my words will become apparent soon enough.

  Our day began most pleasantly. As it is his birthday, we made something of a fuss of Quincey. He is still young enough to relish such attention, for all that he is embarking now upon that difficult stretch of years which will lead him out of childishness and into manhood. We are fortunate to have him with us at present, back from school for the half-term holiday. I shall be sorry indeed to lose him again in a few days’ time, for all that Jonathan – without, I suspect, much conviction – chides me for my sentiment in such matters.

  In the afternoon, the three of us went for a long and meandering walk, through the outskirts of this little village* where we have made our home and into the countryside beyond. Jonathan and I enjoyed the opportunity to take the air and engage in some light exercise while Quincey, ever watchful and unusual, seemed inspired by the starkness of the landscape. There is a wildness to it which speaks to his young soul, derived, no doubt, from his parents. For all our outward respectability, we possess a strain of bohemianism that sets us apart from many of our peers and neighbours.

  We walked down shaded lanes and across chuckling brooks, skirting the edges of farmers’ fields and strolling through copses and the scattered remnants of the old wood. Returning by another way to the village itself, we passed the site of last night’s Guy Fawkes celebration which many of the villagers had attended. We had not joined them, for Jonathan’s nerves are delicate and he finds the constant merriment, the roar and crackle of the blaze, and the almost pagan committal of the guy to the flames, to be profoundly upsetting. For the first tranche of our marriage, he was – and I can admit it here at least, where nobody but I shall ever read it – very bad in such matters indeed but there has in recent years been a modest, steady improvement.

  I dare say that Quincey might have enjoyed last night’s spectacle. I am myself by no means averse to such harmless entertainments and I fear that our continued absence from those festivities lends us in the eyes of the people a disagreeably aloof appearance. Yet, for the sake of my husband, we continue to decline such invitations.

  We stepped without comment about the edges of a great circle of scorched earth where the bonfire had been laid. As we did so, Jonathan made a show of fixing his gaze upon the horizon, and delivered some remark concerning the unusual motion of a flock of starlings. Quincey played along with this piece of mummery, kindly feigning interest in matters ornithological while I kept my own counsel and considered how pleasant it might have been to have walked the night before amongst a throng of revellers, to have taken part in their exuberance and gaiety.

  At home again, we gave Quincey his presents – a volume of poems by Mr Lear, a new suit of deep aquatic blue and, yielding to his repeated entreaties, a small, gingery kitten with whom he was delighted.

  He named him – who knows from where it originated? – ‘Auguste’, and set about immediately making of the animal the firmest of friends. At his uncharacteristically expressive pleasure, Jonathan and I exchanged glances of contentment and pride. We held each other’s gaze in a most meaningful fashion and I even found within me, for the first time in too long, a sudden and unanticipated resurgence of desire. My husband smiled, as if he knew, or at least suspected, the nature of my thoughts. As our son played with Auguste and as Jonathan and I seemed to sense something in the way of a rekindling it seemed that all might yet be well amongst us, that things might go on in just this mode of agreeable serenity.

  Yet even as I had these thoughts, as Quincey stroked the kitten’s small and vulnerable head, as Jonathan and I looked at each other with half-sleepy longing, it was already growing dark outside. Shadows were falling.

  The first of our guests arrived with the dusk – dear Jack Seward, as kind and as decent a gentleman as ever he was, for all that he is a little stouter now and greyer in the temples than when we first met him, in the old century, when Quincey was yet to be thought of.

  ‘My dear Mrs Harker,’ he said as he was shown into our parlour by the maid, his words tumbling over each other in their haste to be heard. ‘You must forgive my early arrival, for I somehow contrived to quite misjudge the length of the journey to this most charming spot.’

  ‘Please.’ I rose to greet him. ‘You are welcome indeed. Your arrival here is always a cause for celebration, however early.’

  ‘But not the chief cause tonight, I think,’ he said and, from behind his back, he presented a small package, bound in red paper. ‘Happy birthday, Quincey!’

  At this, our son jumped up. Whereas in the past Jack might have ruffled the boy’s hair, the two of them now, with a seriocomic solemnity, shook hands.

  ‘Thank you, sir. How generous of you to remember.’

  Quincey unwrapped the parcel to discover that it contained a copy of Mr Darwin’s The Descent of Man. Our son is intelligent and thoughtful but I suspect that such a volume may prove, at least for now, beyond him.

  ‘I think,’ Jack declared, ‘that that book will prove of considerable interest to you. For it has to do with the interrelationship of all life. With the processes of evolution. And with the nature of predation itself.’

  Quincey thanked him politely but, almost at once, he set the thing aside and went back to the kitten, who mewled and wriggled in shy delight.

  My husband spoke. ‘We ought to get you a drink, Jack,’ he said and the two men busied themselves in a discussion, which there is no need to describe here, concerning various wines. I was grateful for the interruption, for Jack is not always the easiest company. Jonathan finds it all rather uncomfortable, I know, and his relief at the appearance a few moments later of decanter and glasses caused an expression of relief to flit quite visibly across his features.

  We stood awhile, we three adults, each with a glass of wine in hand and watched Quincey and the kitten.

  Jonathan, rendered more sociable by the application of alcohol, endeavoured to make small talk with our guest, enquiring as to the state of Jack’s practice which is now situated prestigiously, and, I dare say, lucratively, in Harley Street.

  ‘Oh, it’s interesting enough,’ said Dr Seward, taking at least as swift and punctual sips as did my husband, ‘but it lacks variety. The cost, you see, being so very prohibitive means that my patients are derived solely from a particular stratum of society.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Jonathan, with a heartiness which I know does not come to him naturally, ‘that you have to suffer a stream of monied hysterics? Nerve-wracked countesses? Elderly dukes who wish to be hypnotised in order to recover a sliver of their vigour and youth?’

  Jack managed a thin smile. ‘There is more truth in your words than you know.’

&nbs
p; ‘Come now,’ I interjected, ‘surely you cannot miss the days of the asylum?’

  Dr Seward smiled again and for a moment seemed very far away. ‘The particular difficulties of that time of course I do not miss at all. But there are occasions, yes, when I do miss certain elements of the past.’ He frowned, as if remembering. ‘Certain fascinating puzzles and challenges. And perhaps also the sense that one’s life possessed a… purpose.’ His gaze passed away from us and went instead to Quincey, who was still engrossed in the kitten. At this sight, I saw the doctor’s features arrange themselves in an expression, doubtless unconscious, of considerable dolour and regret.

  The silence that ensued was interrupted by a brisk tap upon the door and the entrance, first of our maid and then in her wake, of two further guests – Lord Arthur and Lady Caroline Godalming.

  At their arrival, the atmosphere improved. Arthur, as befits his rank and education, has about him a courteous bonhomie as well as a rare quality of being able to set all but the most disordered souls at their ease. As soon as he made his entry there was an outbreak of greetings, congratulations, kisses and embraces. It was all quite wonderful and even Jonathan seemed caught up in the simple sweetness of the scene. Carrie, as exquisite as ever, and beautifully dressed in the most fashionable way, was quite the essence of grace.

  Truly, she has risen above those irregularities in her upbringing and early life to become as splendid a wife to Arthur as one might possibly have wished. Poor Lucy would have been pleased at his hard-won happiness. Indeed, I often like to think that she might look down now from a better place to see how the man whom she loved with all her young and tender heart has found, in his middle years, a generous measure of joy.

  In this manner we were happily caught up for some minutes. Jonathan insisted on refilling all our glasses and a small draught was given to Quincey, diluted liberally with water. There ensued much merry clinking and declarations of pleasure at seeing one another again after so many months apart.

  Excited by this pleasant commotion, Auguste scampered nervously about our feet. So taken up were we with this that we did not notice the arrival of our final guest until he had crossed the very threshold of the parlour and had announced in tones of jocular outrage: ‘And what is this? Who dares to start such celebrations without me?’