A Genetic Contract

"Give me a minute."

"Yeah."

While Layathel dismissed herself down the hallway to the bathroom, Jason went directly to his bookshelves.

Jason had been alright living in the dormitory near the college, but Pop insisted he needed his thinking time, and those hooligans would only distract him. No sensible rebuttal came to mind, so it was decided that he'd be living in a luxury condominium, or as luxury as they came in Florida. When Jason had tried to get a job, his folks were horrified at the prospect. "You need to study, not flip someone's burger patty," Pop had said scornfully. It might have smacked of snobbishness to someone else, but Jason got it: They wanted the best for their son and didn't want him wasting his time. They trusted that Jason had a work ethic, and that this would be revealed in his performance at school. It was, too, so Jason didn't have any guilt about his ninth-story apartment with its large glass window giving a splendid view of the city, or the generous floor space. The carpet had been done tastefully in a light, velvety blue; the kitchen floor was stained hardwood, and the interior wooden doors were so dark they looked black. The living room was replete with a large, comfortable sofa, a 65'' OLED television, and a surround system that Jason had wired himself to go through the whole living space, including in the lavatory for setting the atmosphere for his daily showers. Bookshelves lined the walls behind the sofa, three standing on each side of a wide hallway from which a toilet flush sounded presently.

Jason opened the glass door of the far left shelf. These Scarlet Transcripts. Not something he'd be likely to read based on the title alone. He was more of a contemporary sci-fi kind of guy. That and maybe literary fiction if he were in the mood to imagine himself as far more enlightened than he really was. After tapping the spine of every book on that shelf, and each subsequent one, without luck, Jason went into the kitchen through the sliding glass door and poured himself a glass of water. He downed it and then poured another. He couldn't recall ever feeling this weary.

"Your bathroom facet is acting funny — Are you O.K.?"

Jason had been hunched over the sink, arms out, palms clutching the counter edge. Hearing her, he stood and turned. "No, I'm, I'm fine. Just—" He rubbed his forehead and face. "Tired."

"You look it."

"What were you saying before?"

"Huh? Oh, the faucet in your bathroom is like, spraying water sideways."

"That's right, I meant to get that fixed. Oh, well. I'll take care of it later. So, listen. Pop told me about a book."

"Yeah?" She said indulgently, like she was certain this was going to go somewhere fascinating if she just gave him a moment to explain.

Jason went around her, back into the living room, and she followed. "Yeah, I need to find it." He started down the hallway. "It's not there though."

Layathel paused. She slowly shut the bookshelf door he'd left open and started after him. They made a left at the end of the corridor and then went into a room on the right that was used for storage. Inside, boxes were covering most of the floor space, and some of the vertical space. It had the distinct feel of a place whose musty air hadn't been stirred in a while. The clean resplendence of the rest of the apartment barely touched this room. "Wow. Forgot to unpack?"

"Well, I got the stuff I really wanted first. I didn't feel the need to fetch anything else." Jason peeked into a box. "I guess this means I should probably throw a bunch of this stuff out."

They spent the next twenty minutes flipping open cardboard flaps, heaving out books and papers and old toys and writing equipment and shot glasses, peering down into empty boxes that had provided nothing useful, and then putting stuff back in again. Finally, Layathel located the old, worn book among a box of old sports trophies Jason had gotten in high-school. "Found it!" She announced, holding the book up like a champion. It was difficult for Jason not to notice the way her shirt pulled up, baring her taut stomach. If he had a little more energy. . . .

In the living room, Jason plopped himself onto the couch. Layathel sat beside him, then asked if he wanted some coffee. "Have I ever told you," Jason said with affection exuding from his gaze, "that you are an angel?"

"No, but I could tell you were thinking it." She smiled and patted his arm and stood. Jason frowned, watching her go. She'd smiled, but as she stood, the smile had turned into a grimace. He didn't think she wanted him to see it, but he had. Pop had always been straightforward and honest with Mom, and Jason had taken the lesson. When Layathel got back in, he'd ask her what was wrong. Meanwhile, he turned his attention to the book. It was brown, faded leather, with no American (or French) groove, suggesting it was hand-bound. It was secured with a string wrapped around a brass button. It definitely looked like it'd been made a few centuries ago. Jason turned it in his hands, having a notion that there were some mystical properties to it. After what he'd seen with Dracula, he didn't feel as silly as he might have for doing it. Pop had suggested he check this thing out, so it had to be important. Either that or his old man was going senile and— Jason cut that thought off. His parents would live forever, healthy.

Alright, he decided, time to check it out. He unwound the string, flipped open the cover, then turned past the endsheet and to the first page. There was handwriting. This was a journal.

Interesting, Jason thought, I wonder whose this is. I'm not seeing a name.

He only read a few words at the top of the pages as he flipped past, but stopped a few leaves in and read a paragraph.

"In the courtyard today my second love frolicked beneath the apple tree. It has not yet begun to bare fruit, but my first love enjoys telling the second of the many concoctions she intends to make when the apples are in bloom, of apple pie, and cobbler, and slices in the garden on pleasant days, and diced pieces atop roasted duck. All of this talk tends to incite my daughter unto excited chatter. Never have I been so happy. I think that I shall take the two on a trip to the market come this weekend. The estival wears on, and I'd like to have them along before frigid temperatures make it impossible but to sneeze and huddle inside one's woolen coat."

This couldn't be much more bland, thought Jason as he skipped past and skimmed a few more pages. Something caught his eye and he stopped. The handwriting had been rather immaculate on the first pages, but here, maybe fifteen or twenty pages in, the words were messier, with spines of ink jutting out from every letter like thorny growths. The writer had been pressing his pen or quill too hard, and ink was pouring quickly, feathering the page. Jason began to read.

"I've failed both of my loves. They trusted me and I've torn that trust asunder. I'd rip open my chest with the nails of my fingers and rend my bleeding heart from its bony cage if it could repair these catastrophic mistakes. The two know not of my deeds, but they will; I'll tell them. The Dark Mist is no fool, but neither am I. Being a lawyer, and a decent one, I've endeavored to ensure that whatever he may do, there will always be a way out, though the path will be a sorrowful one for he who decides to do so. Still, it is there. As for me, I will ensure that even if my family comes to despise me, they will be tended. Here I shall transcribe the words of my failure, and of my defiance. Forgive me, if you who read this are a descendant of mine, and are searching for answers. Herein lies answers, but also torment. Damned be my soul, and a pox upon my living hands. They shake. I know what I have done."

There was below these poignant words a numbered list in typical lawyerly writing. Jason's rote kicked in and he began to focus with interest and a critical eye. Immediately he saw that this was a contract. His focus became absolute. He barely smelled the coffee grounds roasting in the other room, or noticed Layathel come in from the kitchen, or felt her body heat as she stood next to him. He was just as oblivious when she returned to the kitchen and began clinking ceramic mugs.

Having read and reread the contract, Jason lowered the book between his knees, as he was sitting spread-eagle, and he pondered. Then he stood and paced in the spacious area between the television and the couch, the book dangling between his fingers. If this was correct, then Jason was in a far worse position than he'd realized. This was, for all intents and purposes, a curse. A hex in the form of a contract. If magic were real—and Jason had no reason to think it wasn't at this point—then his fate had been sealed, one way or the other.

Boiling away all of the lawyer speak, it was simple: Jason's grandfather, who would have several "greats" before the moniker, had made a contract with the Count. It seemed to play out like a game. Each son born who became a lawyer would be contractually obligated to take on Dracula as a permanent client, until such a time as he was relieved of his services. The catch was that Dracula couldn't openly discuss the contract with anyone; nor could anyone sharing blood or familial bond with the Sange family discuss it. The document said something about a "compulsion." What sort wasn't clear, but it referred to the "will of the contract," whatever that meant. There seemed to be three "termination clauses": One which could be invoked by a Sange family member, and two that could be invoked by Dracula himself. A fourth also existed, which was mutual agreement to nullify.

There seemed little hope of that.

Dracula's termination conditions were understandable and a boon, but they didn't require much of the Count himself. Foremost, he could just invoke the contract. Simply state that he was calling upon the power of the contract to force his target to obey. That would have two effects, the first of which would be to somehow "compel" the lawyer to act on Dracula's behalf, but this was just as vague as the instance of discussing the contract. The "will" of the document was apparently given deference. The second effect would be that the contract would be null for the next generation, and every generation thereafter. It would end with whomever Dracula invoked the contract against. That wouldn't go well for him, but it didn't particularly hurt him, either. The other way Dracula could void the contract is by physically injuring anyone in the immediate Sange family, or anyone with blood ties extending to third cousin.

It made sense in relation to the words in the journal. The writer had said he made provision to protect his family. This would do it. All of the real force was in the form of the document itself. No strong-arm tactics were required.

The last termination clause was far more insidious, and it's what had Jason wearing the carpet thin as he paced up and down, pensive and anxious. If a Sange simply refused, said that he would no longer follow the contract, then it would end, but so too would that individual's ability to reproduce. If he had a son already, the son's life would be "forfeit" by "compulsion of the contract." If he had a daughter, she would become barren. Jason's future was now subject to the terms of a contract made hundreds of years ago. Meanwhile, the Bar exam was only two months away.