Meet the Count

Pop looked at Jason sidelong as if he were about to get up to something mischievous. "What'd you have for breakfast today, son? Lunch?" Jason was about to respond, but Pop leaned over the center console. "Let me smell your breath. Have you eaten anything with garlic in it today? I hope you haven't had dinner yet."

"I had some popcorn with butter."

Pop was leaned in so close Jason could feel his body warmth and smell the mousse in his hair. "Garlic butter?" Pop asked, giving Jason a critical eying.

What kind of inane question was that? Jason would have been irritable if not for the confusion. "Regular butter," he said flatly. He didn't know from butter, garlic butter, what was his old man driving at?

"Good man!" Pop clapped a hand on his shoulder. He pointed at Jason's iron cross necklace. "You'll want to be tucking that under your shirt. Just like that. No, never mind, put it in your pocket."

"Why am I doing this? Some sort of anti-religious nut live here?"

"On second thought, hand that to me." Pop reached across Jason's lap to pop open the glove compartment and tossed the necklace in. He slapped the compartment shut and leaned back over to his own side of the car, to Jason's relief. One more moment of that pat-down and he'd have taken physical action, father or not.

Jason had no reason to be relieved, because his personal space was about to be violated again. They were out of the car a few moments later facing one another, straightening their respective clothes, when Pop put his hands on his hips and appraised Jason as if he were a three-piece suit Pop wasn't certain if he had some reservations about. The veritable castle loomed over the two, thin and tall and implacable. Jason would have liked to observe the mansion, but Pop's sudden eccentricity was making concentration on anything else difficult.

"Stand tall, Son. Confident, I mean. Just so. Here—"

"Pop, come on, what are you doing?" Jason protested as his dad reached across and undid the first button on his shirt. "Why are you acting weird like this?"

"Not bad. Here, how about the second button, too. Good. That's swell. Say, have you been working out? The Count will approve, no doubt there."

Sighing in resignation that his dad was going to micromanage his outfit, Jason threw out a query about something else. "What's this "Count" stuff? Seriously, answer at least one of my questions. I'm becoming legitimately concerned." Then he added, "I'm standing here with half of my chest exposed, in the middle of a place I don't recognize, with the sun—" he hooked a finger behind, "—setting rapidly."

"Oh, don't concern yourself with titles. Count. Duke. Earl. Don't concern yourself with that." Pop liked to repeat things for emphasis.

"Titles? Who is a Count in America? Is this some visiting dignitary?"

"Oh, he's not visiting. He's been here a long, long time."

"You're messing with me. What is this, a haunted house?"

"Make your jokes here," Pop said sternly, "but be respectful once we're inside, you understand, Son?"

Jason shook his head, but verbally acquiesced. "Sure. Yeah."

Dried leaves crunched underfoot as the they approached an imposing doorway, at least eight feet in height and carved from a dark wood that gleamed with the bluish hues of the evening light. It was set beneath a shallow portico, atop a short stoop. The entrance was alight with blazing torches set in sturdy metal sconces at each side of the door. Inset within the center of the door was a cast-iron knocker: the ghastly face of a gargoyle, teeth clamped tightly on a large ring. The orange flames cast a gleam on its cheek, and sent faint twin shadows bobbing and bouncing. A demon's dance. Now, what had made him think of that?

Jason wasn't about to take the lead, but Pop didn't move either for a time, so they both stood there, then Pop leaned forward, pulled back the big ring and slammed it against the door once, twice, three times.

"Thrice and done," Pop said, grinning as though he'd told some great joke. A chilly breeze made Jason shiver. With the tight creak of old, sturdy wood, the door began to swing inward of its own accord. Pop walked in and Jason followed warily.

Jason had seen some things in his time. When you were taking classes in law school, you tended to hear zany stories, and in the parties you'd witness things that removed your doubt. Still, nothing prepares you for seeing a man in a full suit, holding a cane, walk down a wall.

"Ah, old friend!" Came a voice with a light accent that Jason couldn't quite place. "You have come to exchange the bonds!"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Pop said, taking his hat off and shaking it toward the ceiling, a gesture of friendly admonishment — but at whom, Jason wondered. "He's still a semester out and he's got ideas of his own, this one."

Jason's headed zigzagged and panned across the dark ceiling, searching for the one with whom his father was evidently having a casual conversation. Then, materializing from the shadows, coming down the wall, was a man. A man dressed in a sharp suit of black. He was tall and thin, but not gaunt, at least from what could be discerned from this distance. He was wielding a cane, and sporting a slight limp in one leg, so that every step the cane came striking down onto the wall. Jason shook his head in a little jerking motion as if whatever controlled his neck's motor function were shorting out. This man was casually walking down the wall, as if gravity were lateral for him instead of vertical.

"Ideas, you say?" The man said, skirting and leisurely around a tall window depression. "I think we'll dispel him of other occupations, Dear, Leo."

Pop put his hat back on. "We'll see about it, won't we?" He began walking toward the wall, at which point the gravity-defying man stepped off of the wall and onto the floor. Jason knew what he was seeing but he knew, too, that it was impossible.

Pop, and the man who couldn't be who Jason thought he was, shook hands, said a few words Jason didn't make out, then approached him.

"Jason, my boy. Meet the Count."

The man had a friendly face, an Abraham Lincoln style beard, no hat, a thick head of meticulously combed hair, parted on the left. Walking on the ceiling and wall did not seem to have affected it much. He reached out a hand with long fingers. "A pleasure, Jason."

Jason looked from the hand to the friendly blue eyes. He was accustomed to unusual situations, and had always been capable of appearing calm and controlled. Now, he needed only take the offered hand and say something pleasant and meaningless. Instead, he said, "Count? Count Dracula?"

Not an eloquent first sentence to the Devil himself.

Dracula's grip was firm, but his hand was cool. Jason sized him up, and the Count did the same to him. About 6'2'', with blue eyes just moist enough to look like there was some emotion there, like everything he said or did was a slight extension of some sincere feeling. His wrinkles weren't deep. He had an imperceptible sense of age. Maybe late forties, maybe early sixties. Then again, he was Dracula, right? That was hundreds of years old. Not that Jason was buying it. The man looked nothing like the Dracula Jason recalled from the movies, and he'd never read the book; still, there was a distinct regal-ness to the man. It was in his bearing, and the perfect tailoring of his clothes: Black slacks, black jacket, and a blood red at the lapels and cuffs.

"Well, Jason," the Count said, withdrawing his hand from the grip and turning to sweep it across the interior of the spacious room. "What do you think?"

Jason took it in. Dracula's smooth, commanding voice with hints of a familiar accent compelled him. There were two massive stone staircases with blood-red carpeting going up to the left and right, arcing sharply around to a balcony with thick, spindled stone balusters. Stonework meant to look like vines weaved throughout the balustrade. The ceiling was so high that it wasn't possible to discern just how much of it was encased in shadows. A chandelier hung down maybe twelve feet above the center of the room, the thick cord from which it dangled stretched up and disappeared into the darkness above. There was something almost perverse about this level of grandiosity. It could be appreciated, but not envied. Maybe that was just the distaste for envy coming up with excuses. Another thing he might want to discuss with the family psychiatrist.

Jason looked at the Count to speak to him, and the Count waited in expectation. When Jason took a beat too long, Pop stepped forth, "Hey, he thinks it's swell. Swell! Don't you, Son?"

"Yeah," Jason said. "Of course. It's bombastic."

The Count's look of pleasantness didn't falter. "Well, such is the case with homes built during a time when it was in vogue, as it were, to build homes as such. I need the space in any case, for my evening rendezvous. Now," he changed the subject with a small gesture of his hand, "would you like to dine? I've had my servants prepare a lovely supper."

"Well, that's why we're here, to get some first-class cooking," Pop said with a grin that Jason couldn't determine the veracity of. Dracula smiled in return and Jason found himself searching for fangs. He felt foolish when he saw none. What was going on here?

At the meal, Jason wasn't hungry, but Pop had taught him a few tricks to ensure he seemed like he was eating: Put less food on your plate so that you could eat the whole thing, for instance. People see a polished plate and feel you've done their meal justice. Take a bite just before you start talking or just when someone else asks you a question. Jason put them all to use, although it wasn't quite as necessary as he'd thought it would be. The food really was good: Seared sea-bass over a plate of steamed and salted rice. A simple meal, but the cooks must have known a few secrets.

The meal was a feast for the eyes, too. Candelabras sat at intervals on the table, all of their stems loaded with black candlesticks whose wicks were all sparkling with small yellow flames. The table was a pretty, reddish-brown wood, as if infused with a bloody dye. Jason began to recognize that he was seeing blood in everything that was remotely reddish. It was Dracula, Jason reminded himself. He drank blood, if the stories were true; he didn't go around meticulously painting everything in it.

Dracula, sitting all the way at one end of the table, partially obscured by an ignited candelabra, gestured with a piece of fish skewered on his fork. "Three months, that's when the bond changes hands. You must be excited to finally be ending how many years of grueling study?"

"Six." Jason sounded less enthusiastic than he'd intended to portray.

"And now," Pop said, "You'll be able to take over the family business."

Jason felt a sudden little swelling of frustrations that had been welling within him for the last several minutes. "What exactly is the family business? I fail to understand."

"Why," Pop said enthusiastically, "you'll be working for the Count!"

"Doing what?"

"Being his defense attorney, of course. You know how it is these days. Any man with a few bucks to his name is gonna be set upon by moochers and layabouts and greedy opportunists. The Count here is no exception.

"You'll need to get comfortable with the ends and outs of this particular business, right? That's why we brought you here before the end of the last semester. You can start familiarizing yourself, right?"

Jason was quiet. He stared at a piece of rice stuck between his fork.

"Son? Aren't you gonna say somethin'?"

Dracula said, "Don't concern yourself, Leo. In fact, I think supper is concluded." He stood to give finality to his declaration, ensuring his command wasn't mistaken for a suggestion. "I'd like to speak with Jason. Alone." He looked meaningfully at Pop, who raised his hands in supplication.

"By all means," Pop said.

Jason drew in a calming breath as he too stood. Mixed within him was a whirling menagerie of emotions. Was it anger, fear, confusion or frustration? Dracula?

The drawing room was as opulent as any other room, and twice as cozy. A fire burned in a large fireplace, casting flickering light on the polished reddish-brown furnishings. The carpeting was red as — as a lady-bug's carapace, Jason decided. There was a large, plush chair on one side of fireplace and an ornately carved wooden chair on the other, with a thin pillow on the seat. The Count offered Jason an opportunity to sit, a cigar and a glass of brandy. The first two of these Jason declined. The Count took the liberty of pouring the liquid into two glasses, handed off the one glass and joined Jason in standing.

"Now, let's attempt to come to an understanding, shall we?"

Jason felt strangely more comfortable, it being just the two of them. It wasn't normally his attitude to be nervous around his dad, but there was no denying it this time. He knew why, with only a moment of thought. Pop had a lot of expectations, and Jason wasn't likely going to meet them. "Sure," Jason said, "I'll be honest because I think in this particular instance it's the only way we're gonna be able to proceed." He walked toward one side of the room and looked at a shelf of leather-bound books. "I've had plans for a while. Pop knows, too. It's my intention to become a compliance attorney. I spent six years getting my bachelors and then masters degree, and in my down-time, I studied the laws I needed to study to do the job I wanted to do.

"I haven't wasted any of my time, or not much of it," he admitted, waving his untouched brandy, a small motion. "I don't know if I'm willing to negate that time by learning a whole new set of rules."

"Mm," the Count said preparatorily. Jason knew he was looking at his back but refused to turn, which would be a defeat of a sort. "I won't lie. Those hours will have been made of no effect, somewhat, but the past is done." His voice was not dismissive, possessing of compassion that was frankly disconcerting coming from this man, who was a fabled monster. "In my employ, you shall want for nothing. Your father lives modestly." There was a small pause. "It's not in my manner to speak of another's financial situation, so I shall merely mention that Leonard's lifestyle is one of choice. You could choose differently, Jason. I would ensure it."

Jason turned with a pretenseful casualness. The shiver he was suppressing evanesced. "What would I be doing for you? No offense, but you are the Prince of Darkness and all."

The man before him lifted his chin and laughed, a restrained sound, with good humor. "That is just so, as your father might say. Yet, I've lived for hundreds of years. You know the legends, I've no reason to feign otherwise. I've had time to become a different person a dozen times over. Were I sentenced to a life sentence for my latest capital crime, I'd have completed my sentence; and if I were to have been put to death, well. . . ."

Jason picked it up where the Count left off, "Double jeopardy?"

They both chuckled this time.

"I assure you, there are worse men then myself who will be vindicated within the hour. Their lawyers are being paid much less."

"Do you kidnap women using magical enthrallment and suck their blood?" Jason disregarded all reservation. If he was going to work for Evil Eye himself, he was going to lay all the cards on the table, as Pop might say, being a fair hand at such games himself.

Dracula tossed his head in dismissive derision. "Blah, an unnecessary, primitive method. These days there are simpler ways to find willing victims—offerings, I mean. Is one word better than the other?"

"No," Jason said flatly.

The Count just grinned, unaffected by the judgmental tone. Jason peered at his host's visage. It hadn't been obvious, but there was a streak of wariness within him, and now it became clear. This man was playing at a con.

Reaching out a hand, Dracula suddenly blurred and was in an instant across the room, gently placing that selfsame hand on Jason's shoulder. Smoke billowed where he'd been a moment before. It happened so quickly that Jason didn't even jerk. It was less like a sudden movement and more like Jason had mistaken him as farther away than he was. "My dear boy, consider my offer. You've everything to gain, and nothing to lose. In fact, you could set terms. Perhaps taking cases only that you consider scrupulous?"

Jason was stunned silent and still. With a few blinks of his eyes, he regained control. "I, I'll consider it."

In the foyer, Pop was having a discussion with a man Jason hadn't seen before. He had a grotesque, bulbous hunch in his back, but was otherwise thin, almost waifish. He was wearing a classic split-tailed black and white penguin suit. The Count said his name was Derph Skuff, a funnier name Jason had never heard. Mr. Skuff and Pop were talking about the benefits of sport-touring motorcycles relative to touring bikes, sports bikes and cruisers. The hunchback was saying that he preferred a middling posture, but he couldn't do cars at all, ". . . Or anything with a backrest," he said with no discontent. "The master's limo has a special raised seat with a wide, sloping backrest to accommodate me, you understand."

"I should like to see that," Pop said, then seeing his son and his employer ambling together, turned and greeted them cheerfully, asked if everything went smoothly. "Oh, we'll sort it out, we'll sort it out," he echoed at the lukewarm reception of Jason's "fine," and the Count's wordless smile. "Wait in the car, will you, Son? I'd like to have a moment with ol' Dracs, here."

The tenor of the room had shifted to something more serious, something furtive, which Jason noticed but disregarded as he silently walked out, thoughts stirring.

"What do you think?" Leonard asked, casting glances toward the door, and Mr. Skuff.

"I think," replied Dracula, his brow squeezed into a corrugated frown of irritation, "that you've raised no fool. The smile, the ingratiating manner—he's not inveigled for a moment."

"That's right, and I told you exactly that, didn't I? Me, I'm happy to keep the contract running forever. It keeps me and my family well cared for, but Jason? He's got his own ideas of what he wants to do with his life, and I wouldn't be surprised if he forces you to activate the termination clause out of sheer spite."

"I'm sure we can come to an arrangement one way or the other."

Leonard wasn't impressed with the assertion. Dracula had sized up Jason, and there wasn't a chance that he'd missed the willfulness. "Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall," Leonard said, quoting the Bible.

Dracula turned as if to walk away, back toward the arcing staircase, but when Leonard began to mirror the movement, and had taken his eye off the Count for an instant, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Unperturbed, Leonard looked directly at Dracula's eyes.

"Convince the boy," Dracula said placidly, a softness to his expression that was worrisome, like the curiosity of a grizzly. "Neither of us wish for me to employ my own methods."

Leonard shrugged the hand from his shoulder, adjusted his blazer and exited the mansion.

Dracula stood staring toward the door when Derph Skuff hobbled abreast of him. "The situation is dangerous. Like playing with fire." The words resounded in the large and largely empty foyer.

Dracula allowed the echo to die completely before saying, "The contract was made over a century ago." His voice was tense with frustration. "Times changed, the world became smaller, cramped."

"Was it worth keeping the contract alive? Dealing with these peons."

"A contract in blood is no small thing. I'll keep it going as long as the parchment upon which it was written is not decayed and turned to dust. Even," he added, his upper lip twisting in distaste, "if I must tolerate living in this childish home with its nascent history."

"I do know you despise young homes, Master."

"Indeed. Young homes and lawyers, both."

"Do you mean that English gentleman?"

"Quite." Dracula agreed bitterly. "The kukri wielder. Although the accent has reminded me of another I despise. That Aurelius punk. I do bear quite a few pulsing scars, don't I?" It was said more to himself than his servant.

Derph went silent, and after a moment, Dracula's heels clicked on the marble floor.