In the Milliways Library

[doyousmellfudge_archive]

Artie's been in Milliways for a full month now and still has no solid lead on the damn vampire. It would help, he reflects, if the place had any semblance of organization. It was two weeks before he discovered the library, and he's still trying to make heads or tails out of the cataloging system or lack thereof. Some parts are well-organized; others are well-organized according to a completely different schema; but the majority of the books seem to be just thrown together willy-nilly. Not unlike the Warehouse, only more so.

(Speaking of which, Artie would give his left testicle to have this intact first-edition copy of the Spates Catalogue of Other-Worldely Denyzenns and Desygnationes back home. But given that the thing is an illuminated volume almost the size of the table it's sitting on, it'd be difficult to sneak out of the building.)

Comments

[vojvode]

"As some have not heard of Wallachia."

He interlaces his fingers, peering across the top of them.

"So Mister Harker's little epistolary work made it to the New World, then?"

[doyousmellfudge_archive]

"And then some."

[vojvode]

The vampire hums a little, dark amusement twisting the corner of his mouth.

"Like I said, lies. Told to scare little children."

[doyousmellfudge_archive]

"And the rash of exsanguinated patrons, is that the work of some other vampire?"

Hey, it could be. You never know.

[vojvode]

The Prince laughs, a low, gravelled sound.

"My dear Mr. Weisfelt, I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

[doyousmellfudge_archive]

"Yeah, I'll bet you don't," mutters Artie. "And stop calling me that. I haven't gone by that name since I was twenty-two and you damn well know it."

[vojvode]

"A high price to pay, but no doubt, you feel it was worth it." His voice is a sneer wrapped around a hint of grudging respect.

"Regardless -- Mister Nielsen -- your concerns are completely unfounded. Surely you don't think I would murder indiscriminately in the presence of so many -- powerful patrons?"

[doyousmellfudge_archive]

"Murder? Who said anything about murder? Nobody's been murdered." Yet. "But someone or something is leaving people with severe anemia, puncture wounds on their necks, and no memory of how either one came to pass. That might not be a vampire, but it sure as hell sounds like one, and if you're not responsible, Mister Tepesh, then maybe you could offer some assistance in finding out who is?"

[vojvode]

The Prince tilts his head a little, the corners of his mouth drawing down. One elegant hand rests on his chest.

"Are you accusing -- me of these petty crimes?"

[doyousmellfudge_archive]

"I'm just considering all the possibilities," says Artie. "That's my job. And it would be a load off my mind if you could give me some concrete evidence that it wasn't you. Or better yet, pointed me in the direction of whoever actually did it?"

[vojvode]

His brow furrows for a moment.

"That would hardly be sporting of me, would it? Have you lost your stomach for the hunt? Do you not thrill to the idea of a worthy opponent, hmm?"

[doyousmellfudge_archive]

"Do I look like a hunter to you?" says Artie, giving him a Look. "This isn't a game, Tepesh. People have been violated. It's only a matter of time before someone dies, unless we find out whatever force is behind this and put a stop to it by any means necessary."

[vojvode]

Another laugh, brittle, cold as the grave.

"You are all the same," he answers, rising from his chair and palming his gloves from his pocket.

"So full of bluster and bravado. When you are all just children, hiding in your beds, covers drawn up to your chin. Cowering in the dark from shadows and the wind." He makes no effort to hide the disdain in his voice.

[doyousmellfudge_archive]

"Not all of us, Vlad," says Artie, his jaw set. "Not all of us."

[vojvode]

A low growl rises in the vampire's throat. Before Artie can breathe, Dracula's face is so close to his, he can feel his breath against his cheek.

"I am Dracul to you, peasant. Do not presume to know me."

[doyousmellfudge_archive]

eep.

The bravest man in the world would have a difficult time maintaining a stiff upper lip in such circumstances. Artie? Is not that man.

[vojvode]

"I bid you good evening, sir. And keep your accusations to yourself, little man. Lest you give me justification to -- give your worst nightmares form and substance."

The wind tears down the aisle of the library again, tossing books and papers with it, extinguishing the last guttering source of light with a sharp crack.

The footsteps recede in the darkness, leaving Artie alone with his thoughts.

[doyousmellfudge_archive]

Artie shudders and sags in his seat. He pulls up his glasses and runs both hands over his face.

"We're in trouble."