Page 16 of Dracula: Bound in Blood

The castle grounds were a marvel of carefully cultivated wilderness. Torch-lit paths wound through gardens that seemed to dance on the edge between orderly design and untamed nature. Ancient trees, their gnarled branches reaching towards the star-studded sky, stood sentinel over beds of flowers that glowed ethereally in the moonlight.

The air was thick with the mingled scents of night-blooming jasmine, damp earth, and something deeper, more primal - the scent of secrets long buried. An owl’s haunting call echoed across the grounds, followed by the sudden rustle of leaves as it swooped down upon its unsuspecting prey.

Jonathan was acutely aware of Dracula’s presence beside him as they strolled along the winding paths. Their arms brushed ever so slightly with each step, sending tiny sparks of electricity dancing across Jonathan’s skin. He found his gaze drawn repeatedly to the Count’s striking profile, illuminated by the flickering torchlight.

“What are these?” Jonathan coughed, pointing to a cluster of unfamiliar flowers. “I’ve never seen their like before.” That’s right; it was better to speak of other things to prevent his mind from wandering.

Dracula smiled, and the transformation was remarkable. The usually stern, aristocratic features softened, years seeming to melt away from his ageless face. His lips curved upwards, revealing a hint of perfectly white teeth, and the smile traveled to his eyes, lighting them from within. Those dark orbs, which had previously seemed fathomless and slightly unsettling, now sparkled with genuine warmth and enthusiasm.

“Ah, those are native to these mountains,” he said, his voice rich with affection for the flora of his homeland.

Jonathan found himself momentarily stunned by the change in Dracula’s countenance. The Count’s smile was radiant and infectious, and Jonathan felt an answering warmth bloom in his chest. It was as if a veil had been lifted, revealing a different man entirely from the imposing figure he had first encountered.

This version of Dracula, passionate about the natural world and openly sharing that passion, was utterly captivating. Jonathan realized with a start that the fear he had initially felt in the Count’s presence had all but evaporated. In its place was a growing fascination, a desire to know more about this complex man who could be both intimidating and charming in equal measure.

As Dracula began to explain the intricacies of the mountain flora, Jonathan found himself hanging on every word, asmuch enchanted by the Count’s animated expression as by the information itself. He couldn’t help but wonder what other hidden depths lay beneath Dracula’s carefully cultivated exterior, and a part of him longed to discover them all.

Their path led them to a large greenhouse, its glass panels glowing softly from within. As they entered, Jonathan was enveloped by humid air. The interior was a riot of lush greenery, but one plant immediately caught his eye.

“What on earth is that?” Jonathan breathed, moving closer to examine the strange, bat-like flower.

The plant before him was unlike anything he had ever seen, a creation that seemed to belong more to the realm of dark fantasy than to the natural world. From a thick, sturdy stem rose a flower of such otherworldly beauty that Jonathan found himself momentarily speechless.

The main body of the flower was a deep, velvety black, its petals unfurling like the wings of a bat in flight. The texture appeared almost leathery, with a sheen that caught the soft light of the greenhouse, creating an illusion of movement even in stillness. At the center of this dark bloom, a rich purple heart pulsed with life, reminiscent of the deep hues of a twilight sky.

But the flower’s most striking feature truly captured Jonathan’s imagination. Emerging from the base of the black petals were long, whisker-like tendrils, some stretching nearly a foot in length. These delicate filaments were a stark white, creating a mesmerizing contrast against the flower’s dark body. They swayed gently in the warm air of the greenhouse, giving theimpression of a creature, both plant and animal, frozen in a moment of elegant metamorphosis.

The leaves beneath the flower were broad and glossy, their deep green providing a lush backdrop that only emphasized the dramatic beauty of the bloom. As Jonathan leaned in closer, careful not to touch the delicate structure, he could almost imagine the flower coming to life, its bat-like form ready to take flight into the night.

“That, Mr. Harker, is the Black Bat Flower,” Dracula explained, a hint of pride in his voice. “Also known as the devil flower or cat’s whiskers. It’s native to the tropical forests of Southeast Asia.”

Jonathan marveled at the flower’s unique appearance. “It’s extraordinary,” he murmured. “But if it’s native to such a distant land, how did you acquire it?”

A shadow passed over Dracula’s face, his expression growing distant. “I traveled to Southeast Asia personally to obtain it. It was... a friend’s favorite, a friend from long ago. Béla was his name.” The Count’s voice softened, taking on a wistful quality that Jonathan had not heard before.

Dracula’s gaze seemed to look beyond the greenhouse, a man lost in memories. “Béla had never seen such a flower before, but he’d heard tales of it from pirates and merchant vessels traveling to those distant lands. He became quite fascinated with it.” A small, sad smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I promised him that one day, when the fighting was done and I was free, we would travel there together to see it in bloom.”

Jonathan listened intently, captivated by this glimpse into the Count’s past. He wondered who this Béla was - clearly, he must have been a dear friend to have left such a lasting impression on Dracula. The sorrow in the Count’s eyes was palpable, a deep well of grief that seemed to span centuries.

As Dracula spoke of “fighting,” Jonathan’s brow furrowed in confusion. He wracked his brain, trying to recall any recent conflicts in the region. The only war that came to mind was the Russo-Turkish War, which ended sixteen years ago. Could the Count and Béla have fought in that conflict? Given Dracula’s youthful appearance, it seemed unlikely.

Jonathan found himself studying the Count’s face, trying to discern his age. Despite the sorrow in his eyes, Dracula looked remarkably young - certainly not old enough to have been involved in a war nearly two decades past. Yet something in his manner, in the depth of his knowledge and how he carried himself, spoke of far greater age than his appearance suggested.

The mystery of Dracula’s age and the identity of this Béla who had meant so much to him only deepened Jonathan’s fascination with the enigmatic Count. He felt an inexplicable urge to comfort Dracula, to somehow ease the pain evident in his eyes. But he held back, unsure of how such a gesture would be received.

Instead, Jonathan asked softly, “Did you and Béla ever get to see it together?” His heart anticipated the answer, sensing the tragedy beneath the surface of Dracula’s words.

“No. Béla died in the fighting. So I traveled there alone to find and plant this flower here in his memory.” He paused, seeming surprised by his own openness. “I apologize, Mr. Harker. I didn’t mean to spoil the mood with such melancholy tales. If it would brighten the mood while I was gathering the flower roots, I found a remarkable black cat who wouldn't leave my side. So much so that I had brought him home with me, and as strange as it sounds, I felt far less lonely with him around.”

“Please, don’t apologize, there's no need to lighten the mood,” Jonathan said quickly. “You’ve spoiled nothing.”

A comfortable silence fell between them as Jonathan continued to study the flower. Suddenly, he laughed. “It’s strange, you know. That name, Béla —it’s been on my mind for as long as I can remember—since childhood, really.” He leaned in to smell the flower but recoiled at the unexpected stench. “Good lord, it smells like a rotting corpse!”

Dracula’s eyes sharpened with interest. “The name has been on your mind? How curious. Can you explain why?”

Jonathan shook his head, frowning slightly. “I can’t, really. It’s just always been there. I even named my dog Béla. Perhaps I thought that if I spoke it aloud often enough, it would... I don’t know, make sense somehow.”

The Count’s gaze was intense, searching. “Have you had any strange dreams, Mr. Harker? Anything you can recall?”

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