Good morning and Happy Hump Day! If it's Wednesday, then it must be time for more flash fiction from the Wednesday Briefers! We're a group of authors who bring you our finest flash fiction every week, 500 to 1000 words, inspired by one of our prompts.
As Dracula prepares to go out, Avram is clearly uneasy, but what can he do? Maybe things will work out well. See what's happening in this week's chapter of Dracula. Don't forget to visit the other Briefers and see what's up with them. Their links follow my tale. Enjoy!
“Then perhaps
I am evil.” The Count laughed as he spun about in a playful pirouette. His long
wavy hair swayed with his movement. It flowed down his back, tied with a
leather queue fastened by an intricately carved ivory hairpin. When caught by
the sunlight, his glossy tresses appeared to possess blue undertones, but that
was merely a trick of the sun’s rays. At night, his locks seemed to sparkle,
much like their owner.
“Evil is
relative, Nico,” Avram replied, the nickname springing from his lips with practiced
ease. Admittedly, their relationship was a complicated one, unintelligible to
outsiders. More than a mere servant, Avram was often a confidante to the
vampire, as well as the voice of reason. A co-conspirator in their life
journey, such as it was. He also managed their finances and did his best to
save the nobleman from his extravagances. And as many foolish decisions as he could,
although he was not always successful in that regard. “As Exodus tells us,
sometimes it matters whose ox is being gored. Should I explain to you this allegory?”
Dracula
rolled his eyes. “I stopped believing in that book a long time ago. And no, I
understand what it means.”
Avram
removed the stopper from an elaborately decorated glass bottle, bought during
their last visit to Paris, and handed it to the Count. He poured some of the
fragrant oil into one hand and used one slender finger to dab it at various
points of his body—behind both ears, at the base of his throat, and on the
inside of each wrist. Notes of bergamot filled the air, along with something a
little muskier.
“You
know, Avram, I remember reading some years ago a sermon that had been written
by one of the colonists in America. I forget his name or which religion he
represented, but I remember his words. He basically said that we are all
sinners, dangling like a spider from the hand of the all-powerful, angry God,
and that it was at his forbearance we are suffered to live. Furthermore, he has
the power to cut those strings and cast us down into the flames at any time. For
any reason or for no reason whatsoever, at his discretion.”
“Such a
delightful image,” Avram quipped. “I’m glad my people don’t really believe in
the concept of Hell. Sounds like a horrible place.”
Dracula
made no immediate response. Sensing a change in his demeanor, Avram replaced
the perfume where it belonged, then dared a glance at him. No longer smiling, his
handsome face seemed peaceful enough. But Avram knew better. He sensed storm
clouds brewing beneath the deceptively calm exterior, as if he had
inadvertently touched a nerve, or reopened an old wound.
“I may
not believe in God,” the vampire said quietly, “but I hope there is a place
like Hell. Some people deserve such a Fate.”
Wishing
he could recall his ill-chosen words, Avram could only imagine which people his
master was referring to, and he had to agree with his statement. They both fell
silent.
Suddenly,
Dracula withdrew his skeletonized pocket watch from its resting place within
his coat and glanced at the face. Avram was well familiar with this device. It
was unique in that where most watches in the vogue were elaborately decorated
and engraved, this one was styled in such a way as to view the working
mechanisms of the timepiece itself.
Another
expensive bauble. But at least this one served a useful purpose. And could
probably be sold for a goodly sum, should that ever become a necessity.
Although how he would be able to wrest the object from the grasp of its rather
strong owner was a matter for another day. One that would hopefully never come.
“One
must not keep a beautiful woman waiting, Avram.” The potential storm had
passed. Dracula was once again in high spirits, no doubt in anticipation of the
carnal delights awaiting him in the village below. Avram was less sanguine.
“As you
wish, milord.” No sense in arguing. All he could do now was monitor the
situation as well as he could. Which meant spending time in the same dreary alehouse
where the unwittingly cuckolded blacksmith could be found.
to be continued
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