[Fanfic] Why Won’t You Die? (3)

Disclaimer : Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandoms : Dracula (2013), Penny Dreadful (2014)

Rating : M

Pairing : Dracula/Alexander Grayson x Dorian Gray

Genres : fanfiction, crossover, humor, probably a little OOC

Characters : Dracula/Alexander Grayson, Dorian Gray, Renfield, original character

Warnings: gore

Summary : It was pretty simple: Dracula’s habitual feeding was seen by a mortal young man (a very handsome one but it was not the matter!), so in order to protect his secrets, naturally the monarch of vampires had to kill him. Then, for some mysterious reason, the same young man showed up at his demonstration ball, alive, well and would very much like to remind the vampire how he had mercilessly ‘broken’ his heart only nights before.

III.    Blood Is the Life (or Not?!)

Why wont you die 3


“Perfection, sir,” said Renfield, taking a step back to get an overall view of his handiwork. The tux brilliantly complimented his lithe form, the black cravat adorned with a single pearl was most elegant (Renfield’s choice), his mustache and goatee well-groomed and there was not a single strand of hair out of place. Such an epitome of perfection was Alexander Grayson that Renfield actually felt hot tears rimming his black eyes. He half-heartedly wanted to say his boss looked dazzling but then he vividly remembered Grayson held a persistent grudge against any vocabulary related to light and shining; thus he opted for another word that was less likely to touch his boss’s sore spot.

Grayson was probably having the same idea (that was, he looked good, if not perfect) for a fang-y grin was spreading across his fine features. Renfield winced, and gestured to the corner of his mouth. For all their years together, he still had not quite gotten used to seeing Grayson’s pointed teeth. No, he was not squeamish about their shape or usage, nor was he afraid of them – he had seen worse from his boss. The truth, which Renfield never mustered enough courage to reveal to Grayson, was that when Grayson had that toothy grin of his he looked positively like the Cheshire Cat (he still had no idea why such vocabulary came forth in his mind; it just did), which, of course, dealt great damage to the sophisticated and authoritative image he strived to impress people. The inconvenient truth that sometimes his fangs grew without his conscious control did not help one bit.

“Photographed upon entry?” Alexander asked.

“As arranged. Sir, from this day onward, you are an American industrialist.”

“As American as God, guns, and bourbon. Is my accent all right?”

“Flawless, sir,” said Renfield with a smile and his thumb up.

“Thank you, Renfield. You should go get change too.”

Renfield replied with a silent nod before exiting Grayson’s chamber, leaving the man to the company of his reflection. He took a glance at his pocket watch. It was an hour and a half till the opening of the ball and there was still plenty of time to change. Unlike Grayson’s, Renfield’s outfit and hair required much less attention – it was Alexander Grayson the new entrepreneur that people would have their eyes on tonight, not his assistant. Renfield could do well with little attention; having people staring at him unfortunately reminded him of his earlier years back in the New World. He thought that he should do a double-check on the technical team. Better be careful than sorry.

From a spot above the stairs Alexander watched his honored guests in silence. Some had arrived quite early and formed little groups of acquaintances. His enhanced hearing picked up parts of their conversations. Mostly small talks about this lord or that lady, what the new exotic club at the West End offered, and the likes. Sometimes his pseudonym was tossed in, followed by some scornful remarks about the stereotypical American entrepreneur who possessed some ‘new’ money but had zero knowledge of the old aristocratic way. Laughter rose after such comments, grating Alexander’s nerves; nevertheless, there was not much useful information worthy of the former monarch’s lowering himself and trying to mingle in. Gossips seemed an essential sport of the upper class at present as it had been some hundred years ago – something never got too old. They interested him little as they had done before (though his wife Ilona, unfortunately, had been quite engaged in them). His eyes scanned the vast ball room with concealed boredom; he supposed if he were human he would feel the unstoppable urge to yawn. Then the door opened and entered a young man that instantly caught Alexander’s eyes. The most remarkable aspect of him aside from his face was his costume, which brought a touch of color into the monotony of the men’s formal dress suit with its peculiarities: the few top buttons of his white shirt were left undone, leaving his neck and throat exposed as he was not wearing any tie, cravat, or scarf; under his black jacket he was having a blazing fuchsia and black striped waist coat that one might find more common at a carnival than a formal event – on him, however, it gained a certain charm that exceeded its association. The bracelets on his wrists jingled lightly as he took long strides in, announcing his presence. First, it was only one lady or two who turned their heads upon hearing the soft ringing sound, summoned by the silvery beckon, but soon, most of the ladies and even some of the gentlemen were staring at the newcomer with eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

Alexander was no exception; in fact it was he who stared the hardest at the young man as if trying to record every small detail into his memory: the dark chestnut hair framing his delicate face, the amber-colored eyes that were just a little too big for a grown man, giving him a faux child-like innocence, the Cupid’s bow lips that was curving in a polite smile when the ladies, maiden and wedded, batted their eyes at him, perhaps hoping for a secret and passionate rendezvous. The golden light of the ball room complimented his complexion far better than the dusted street lamp – it was as though his skin was radiating a soft glow. Alexander’s eyes bore into the man’s neck. Underneath the layer of silky skin was the prominent blue vein that was full of the toxically sweet nectar having poisoned him only nights ago. His sight was magnetized to it and his other senses were reduced to just the beating of the young man’s heart mingled with the clanging of his jewelry and the strong scent of intoxicating youth flowing in his arteries. Tantalizing. To think Alexander was able to pick out one particular scent amongst the sea of perfumes. His throat burnt with thirst, and so did his eyes. Through a red transparent veil he watched the young man blend in effortlessly with the aristocrats, joining their small talks and laughing with them like an intimate friend. His amber eyes twinkled, his manners charming and suave.

How Alexander wished to launch at him like the predator he was and drank him dry for all the mortals to witness.

He did not realize the shapes of his fingers were imprinted on the oaken rail, and he might break it in half were it not for a strong, black hand literally shaking him out of his bloodlust trance and a familiar voice waking his senses.

“Sir, get a hold of yourself!”

The red veil was lifted off, the sound and scent subdued and his world swiveled and molded back into the one he knew and lived in, whose focus was a pair of earnest black eyes. He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Sir, you looked as if you were about to jump down and dine on our guests. What’s the matter?”

“I was about to do just that, Renfield,” answered Alexander. His throat still felt as if he had swallowed a ball of flame. “I think I need some whiskey.”

Renfield furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t think it’s a wise idea to start drinking before the party begins, sir.” His eyes swept around cautiously and he asked in low voice, “What’s wrong, sir? I thought you’d fed already.”

“I haven’t, but the cause of my thirst is not natural. Do you see the young man down there?”

“There are a lot of young men down there, sir,” Renfield said matter-of-factly. “Which one am I supposed to see?”

Alexander scoffed slightly. How could Renfield miss such a conspicuous individual as that one? “The brown-haired one with a carnival waist coat and silver bracelets.”

Renfield scanned the room. “Nowhere, sir.”

With an exasperated huff Alexander looked down on the expanding crowd of fancy clothes and did not find the young man whose presence had nearly sent him into a bloodlust. Beside him Renfield grimaced at the sight of his boss’s eyes going alarmingly red and his fangs protruding at the corners of his lips. “Please follow me inside, sir,” he said hurriedly, grabbing Alexander’s arm and leading him away from the ball room and into his office.

“I understand that you may be feeling a little… nervous at your debut but it is imperative that you calm yourself down.” He half-pushed his boss down a large chair. “If you were human I would suggest a breathing exercise to…”

“I. am. not. nervous,” Alexander cut him. Each syllable was stressed like a hammer hitting a stubborn nail.

Renfield sighed and reached into his breast pocket, from which he took out a hand mirror. He held it up in front of his boss’s face. “Your eyes are red and your incisors are elongating. I dare say your current appearance is not appropriate to greet your guests.”

Alexander stared at his reflection for half a minute before bringing his hands to his face, massaging the muscles. Thankfully when he put his hands down, his eyes had returned to their pale blue and his teeth had shrunk back to acceptable length. Renfield nodded in approval.

“Really Renfield, I am not nervous. I am panicked.”

Renfield’s mouth was frozen in a perfect ‘o’. What did he just hear? Alexander Grayson was panicked? Vlad Tepes The Impaler who had gone to hell and back to carve fear into the heart of men was panicked?! Was Apocalypse approaching and Renfield was not even aware?!

“What could cause you to panic?” He managed speech at last. “Did someone of the Order of the Dragon…”

“That young man in the ball room… I remember seeing him before…”

Renfield blinked questioningly at him.

“… in a deserted alleyway two nights ago,” he sighed. “And I happened to drink his blood and gouged out his heart.”

As he spoke, his memory revived the scent of flesh blood and the feeling of a beating heart between his fingers.

Renfield gaped at him, wide-eyed and utterly speechless. Then he blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. “Sir,” he spoke with a certain level of hesitation, “are you saying you have seen a ghost? Right in the middle of the ball room? Among the company of hundreds mortals and one immortal?”

No need for such specification, Renfield.

“He… certainly did not look like a ghost…” But Alexander had never seen a specter himself so he was not in the position to judge whether a ghost should look like a ghost. Who had dictated that ghosts should look ghastly and be covered in blood and not wear a flamboyant waistcoat, silver jewelry and have shining brown hair and ruddy cheeks? “… He certainly did not look like a man who had his neck torn and his heart ripped,” he corrected. “Certainly did not look dead.”

“Then the man with such descriptions has vanished from sight?”


A lengthened, awkward silence.

“May I speak freely, sir?” Renfield asked meekly.


“It is much more assuring to hear that you are nervous than you have seen a dead person who may or may not exist.”

“I know what I saw, Renfield,” Alexander retorted.

Renfield quirked an eyebrow. “Do you truly know what you see when you are in unscheduled bloodlust? Remember that one time in New Orleans…”

Alexander held up a pale hand, successfully preventing Renfield’s narrative, which to him was only a train wreck of mortification. That incident in New Orleans might haunt him for the rest of his undead life, which was not a very favorable prospect.

Renfield looked at the watch. “I wish we could discuss this matter some more but it’s almost time, sir. Better not to let them wait.”

“I need a shot of whiskey.”

Was that a whining tone in his voice or was it Renfield’s imagination?

“Just one sip, sir,” Renfield sighed, defeated.

Alexander nodded.

Renfield magically conjured a flask from his pocket and handed it to his employer, who took it, uncapped and unhesitatingly poured the liquid into his mouth. He returned the flask, patted Renfield’s shoulders and headed for the door.

When Renfield checked, his once full flask of whiskey was empty. One sip indeed. He marked down Alexander’s drinking habit on his mental note as something he should have a word with his boss later. Alcoholism was good to none, men and immortals alike.

It occurred to Alexander that he was not the least nervous. He persuaded them with his confidence and eloquence; he dominated them with his authoritative air. He had been royalty once: to exert his charisma and conquer a crowd was the least he could do to not sully his former name and bloodline, aside from having them impaled but that was out of the question. When looking upon their shared expression of awe, he could not help a little smirk: they were won, those who had laughed and gossiped about him earlier. Even the high-ranking members of the Order of the Dragon present were swayed. Though they hid their concern beneath artfully constructed disdain, he knew they understood that he was not a stereotypical American, that he might pose a real threat to their shadow empire.

And he also knew that he had not been hallucinated by his bloodlust either, for only a few moments after Alexander had begun his speech on the new, clean source of energy his entrepreneur company sought to introduce to the Great Britain, he caught sight of soft brown hair and amber eyes amongst the gathering crowd. His hair looked somewhat tousled as compared to his immaculate look before and there was a new blush on his smooth cheeks that added to his unnerving beauty. Did Alexander just think that the young man was beautiful? He did, and worse, he was distracted by it just enough for the audience to start questioning his silence before dear Renfield tapped him on the shoulders to remind him that he should resume his explanation. Oh right, back to the less distracting visages.

Perhaps in another universe Alexander Grayson would spot the lovely face of Mina Murray among the honored guests attending his party, and recognize her as the reincarnation of his deceased beloved wife Ilona. Then he would engage in a dangerous and sensual chasing game with her, which, much to a certain reporter’s dismay, ended with a Mina Murray in his bed and a very jealous and possibly murderous Jonathan Harker vowing to bring him back to his iron tomb. However, in this timeline and universe, while Mina Murray had sneaked to a corner to share a champagne with her best friend Lucy, Alexander’s eyes were entirely on the mysterious young man whom he was sure he had killed but now had shown up in his manor. On the bare skin of his neck that radiated a tantalizing scent, on the mischief light in his amber eyes and the contours of his lips that shifted when he smiled. The boy sure liked to smile as if he thought his smiles were his weapon as tears a woman’s. It might not be far from truth: Alexander could count the number of ladies hopelessly smitten and looked as though they could lay their life in front of him, and some males, too, though they were more surreptitious. He had never understood so well how the curves of one’s lips could “rewrite history” until now.

When all the candles were blown off for the demonstration to begin, their gazes locked for a millisecond, and Alexander felt as if he had accidentally touched the generator that was the source of the ‘miracle light’ with which he was about to astonish his guests. Eyes like these would be the death of him one day, the monarch of vampires was reminded of the crucial moment he had decided to sink his teeth into the young man’s veins. The bulb in each guest’s hand flared with light and surprised gasps filled the ball room but it seemed to Alexander at that moment there was no light brighter than the twin amber orbs and there was no sound louder than the quick intake of air from those carved rose lips.

“Can you see him now?” he whispered to Renfield once the demonstration was over and the ball room erupted in delightful applaud. The flute of champagne in his hand tilted to a particular direction. “The brown-haired one with the peculiar way of dressing?”

“The pretty one who has his throat bare, sir? Is he the one…”

“Yes. I want every information possible about him. Who he is. Where he lives. Why he is here…”

“… and possibly what he is, sir?” Alexander did not miss the similar interest in the man’s irises.

“Possibly what he is. I want to know everything.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Alexander Grayson barely listened to what the lady was speaking – his mind was busy searching for the color of fuchsia and black which had again disappeared from his sight. This lady had approached him, a voluptuous blonde woman in a teal dress that unabashedly showed half of her breasts, inviting the lustful gazes of many a man as she cut through the crowd like a well-honed blade. She congratulated him, of course, and went on talking something about an upcoming opera. He was not sure since his polite attention was only feigned. She reminded him too much of a lady in his court who had openly tried to seduce him even in the presence of his lawfully wedded wife, and for that Alexander found her womanly endowments tasteless at best. Her title and possible wealth, on the other hand…

“Oh, here you are. I have been searching for you. I want to congratulate you in person but it seems you are in company,” said a soft male voice which instantly alerted Alexander and the lady. Both looked to the right and met a pair of amber eyes. “The demonstration was very illuminating indeed.”

Alexander tensed for a millisecond, and he could hear the blood rushing in his veins in respond to the young man’s perfume. It was rose he was wearing tonight, a tad too womanly for Alexander’s normal preference. And there was the sweet scent of his blood lurking beneath. His instincts were provoked and it took all his will to restrain his own body from acting to its urges. His fists clenched and shook behind his back.

The young man glanced at Alexander’s arms briefly and did not hold his hand out for a handshake. “And what a ravishing company you are having Mr. Grayson. I find myself immensely envious.”

He was having his boyish smile as he held the lady’s hand and placed a light kiss on the gloved skin. “My name is Dorian Gray. A great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady…”

“Jayne Weatherby. The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Gray. You seem to be acquainted with our charming host before tonight.”

“I have had the pleasure to meet Mr. Grayson a couple of times. A ‘strained’ friendship is what I believe to be our case, am I right, Mr. Grayson?”

He winked at Alexander, whose body began to tense at each word. Were they to have vampiric senses, they could hear his knuckles cracking. “If you want to put it that way,” he said.

“Actually, Mr. Grayson and I had a date two evenings ago. Sadly he did not show up.” Feigning a pained expression, Dorian Gray put a hand above his chest. “Left me with a broken heart.”

Lady Weatherby was quick to console him by giving Alexander a chastising look. “Perhaps Mr. Grayson has not known but here in Britain we cherish our promises once made.”

Now Alexander could hear his fangs protruding and piercing his gums. His hands ached to wrap around Dorian Gray’s slender neck. And it was a real ache, not just an expression.

“I did understand that Mr. Grayson might have had a more important and urgent business than a casual tête-à-tête with me. I was hoping to have a few words with him after the demonstration. Did I interrupt your conversation? That was terribly rude of me.”

“No, you did not,” said Lady Weatherby. Her piercing, kohl-rimmed eyes glanced sharply between a tense-looking Alexander and an amiably handsome Dorian Gray. “I was hoping to invite Mr. Grayson to an opera three days from now but it seems opera is not really his cup of tea. He was rather… uninterested.”

“I beg to differ, my lady,” said Alexander. “But indeed I did not have many opportunities back in America – in New Orleans the theaters have actors imported from France but they are all pale imitations. The fastest way to kill off one’s passion. My years of traveling did not offer much chance either. Upon coming to London I have been thrilled with chances to indulge in my affection for arts.”

The lady’s coral lips curved in a smile. “All art lovers, aren’t we? I find it assuring that I am not the only one interested in opera here. Mr. Gray, would you care to join us on this occasion?”

Dorian Gray smiled. “Although I have been a devout lover of opera, I must say the current plays are becoming rather tedious and repetitive. Shakespeare, certainly, everyone loves Shakespeare, but watching Juliet embrace her beloved Romeo in her arms or Othello murder Desdemona out of blind jealousy the hundredth time hardly produces the same thrill and passion as the first. Still, none dare a change to these acclaimed classics: none would make Iago the hero or Romeo the bastard. It is tragic, but the novelty has already worn off long ago.”

Lady Weatherby shook her head in disbelief and clasped her hands. “My God, Mr. Gray, you could put all the directors and actors to tears with your words. I would not be surprised if you declared one day to become a theatrical critic. You are not already one, are you?”

Dorian Gray laughed with her. “A dreadful notion, my lady. As my late grandfather – God bless his soul – once said, ‘Those of talents write, and those envy only criticize.’ It was perhaps the only thing I could remember from him. A terrible grandson I am.”

“Wise words from a wise man. Alas, I did intend to invite you gentlemen to join me on Macbeth.”

“May I suggest an alternative, my lady, Mr. Grayson? I have fortunately discovered a theater at the East End, where the plays are all new and written differently from the classics. ‘Avant garde’ as they say.”

“Is that where a poor common girl was found grisly murdered only two days ago? My God!”

Lady Weatherby put a hand on her ample bosom and gasped quietly but like Dorian Gray, her fright was only acted. The gleam in her eyes betrayed her. Blood and violence seemed to turn her on, Alexander could catch it in her scent.

“There is no joy without risk, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Grayson?”

His eyes directed at Alexander, a subtle challenge.

“If Lady Weatherby is pleased, who am I to decline such an offer?”

He too managed a small smile without allowing his incisors to be visible.

“I do hope Mr. Grayson will keep his promise this time,” said Lady Weatherby, winking at Alexander. Then she turned to Gray and graced him with a wide smile.

After having seen Lady Weatherby to her coach, Alexander strode to the garden, and was unsurprised to see Dorian Gray had not left yet. The young man beamed when he saw Alexander.

“Would you care for a walk, Mr. Gray?” said the vampire through gritted teeth. He was quite certain Dorian Gray, with his observant eyes, would not miss his palpable fury. “I’d like to have a few private words with you.”

“But of course, Mr. Grayson.”

Only a fool would accept such a shady invitation. Dorian Gray was not a fool, not in the least, which made his motives even vaguer to Alexander.

He had Dorian Gray up against the stone wall once they were remotely out of other guests’ eyes. His fingers closed around the young man’s neck like he had visualized earlier. His skin was warm and smooth under Alexander’s cool fingertips. One of his hands rested on Alexander’s forearm, gently drawing small circles on the fabric. To his surprise, Dorian Gray started giggling as though being pressed by another man (perhaps not man) to the hard stone wall was very amusing to him.

“Do you have any idea who I am, what I am?” His voice was a growl surging from the depth of his throat, more beast than human. He tightened his grip. Dorian Gray’s feet barely touched the ground. “Do you fancy your skin peeled off like a grape?”

It was difficult to be hung off the ground and laugh at the same time, but Dorian Gray still managed a smile. “Do you fancy a skinless corpse in your garden and the Scotland Yard questioning you day and night? I think I have a good idea of what you are, Mr. Alexander Grayson, as we were rather… intimate two nights ago.”

His fingers wrapped around the vampire’s wrist but he made no attempt to try lessening the pressure on his neck. “The question is, Mr. Grayson, do you have any idea who I am, what I am?”

The echo of his question further fanned the rage in Alexander.

“What are you playing, Dorian Gray?”

Their faces were close, and Dorian Gray’s perfume was stronger than ever. So was the scent of his blood.

“The same as you are,” whispered Gray, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Human.”

The last stressed word pulled the trigger and Alexander could not careless about a dry corpse or even ten in his garden. He could tear the body into pieces and discarded them over London if he had to. To hell with the Scotland Yard; all he wanted was blood – Dorian Gray’s peculiar blood that had him passed out for a day. He dipped his head in the nape of Dorian Gray’s neck and bit.

Dorian Gray’s blood was the same as he remembered, hot, thick and sickeningly sweet. It flowed into his bloodstream and quickly dissolved his rational thoughts, leaving his nature to surface and rule the rest of him. He knew Dorian Gray’s blood was sugared toxic, and he could not help sucking in that toxic until the last drop.

But there was no last drop. As before, the flow did not cease no matter how much he had taken – an endless river that soon had Alexander drowned. His consciousness was slipping fast, Dorian Gray’s moans became distant, and darkness put a veil over his eyes.

Before long, it was Dorian Gray who had to wrap an arm around the vampire’s shoulders, keeping him from falling to the ground.

“Now, now, where’s your table etiquette, Mr. Grayson?”

His tongue flicked against the corner of Alexander’s lips, cleaning away a few stray beads. His ministration elicited no response from the vampire.

Renfield looked at the two figures in front of him with badly concealed horror. His boss, Grayson, appeared unconscious and was supported by a brown-haired, amber-eyed young man who looked much paler than he remembered. On his shirt were a few dark stains, to Renfield’s dismay.

The young man smiled at him amiably. “You must be his assistant, Mr. Renfield I assume? Mr. Grayson has drunk quite a lot of champagne and the alcohol doesn’t seem to agree with his tolerance.”

Renfield was dumbfounded. What did the young man just say? His boss, Mr. Grayson, who could gulp down an entire barrel of whiskey would have gotten drunk on champagne? That would be the worst lie ever. He scrutinized the young man from head to toe with growing suspicion.

Not minding the odd way Renfield was looking at him, he gently transferred Grayson’s weight to Renfield’s awaiting arms. “It is quite late already. Please excuse me.”

“May I ask, who are you?” Renfield called after the young man, who had turned to leave.

“My name is Dorian Gray. Should Mr. Grayson ask, please tell him he still owes me a burgundy silk scarf and…” He glanced at the stains on his white shirt. “… a shirt. Goodnight, Mr. Renfield.”

His lean figure disappeared behind the iron gate.

Sighing, Renfield carefully walked his drunken boss inside the manor. Grayson smelled of rose, which was not his perfume tonight. He suspected it was from the mysterious young man. Dorian Gray. Renfield made himself remember the name.

When they passed the fountain, he barely managed to halt Grayson’s half-hearted attempt to reconcile with the water. He considered himself lucky that Grayson’s suit was unsullied. Grayson looked very handsome in it; it would be a real shame if he had to throw it into the fireplace.

And, he hoped against hope that Grayson would get sober enough for the scheduled interview tomorrow afternoon.

Dorian found Raziel waiting for him at the gate.

“You seem in a jolly mood, sir. Was it a good party?”

“It was great,” said Gray, taking off his coat and sitting down so Raziel could help him with his shoes and socks. “An illuminating experience. It would be great if we had that wireless light bulbs around our house.”

“As long as it makes you pleased, sir.”

“More than pleased, Razz, I am absolutely thrilled.”

“When was the last time I saw your buttons all done up?” Raziel arched a dark eyebrow at his master. “Is the air particularly chilling tonight?”

Grinning, Dorian unbuttoned his shirt with leisure hands, revealing two nasty bite marks. The blood had dried and caked around the wounds.

“I doubt that these stains could be washed away. A shame,” said the butler in a remorseful tone.

“He owes me a scarf and a shirt. Next time we meet, I’ll be sure to remind him.”

“The same one?”

Dorian nodded.

“Good thing he didn’t rip you apart like last time.”

“I consider it an improvement.” Dorian shrugged. “He only had me against the wall and bit me.”

“You met him on the street?”

“At the party.”

“A vampire attending a scientific demonstration ball? Now that’s innovative.”

“Even better, he was the host.”

Raziel stared silently at his young master for a good minute before his thin lips slowly curved into a smile, which was mirrored on Dorian’s face. “Congratulations, sir, there’s finally something that could pique your interest.”

Dorian could not agree more.


Could Dorian’s licking Alexander’s lips qualify as their first kiss?

16 thoughts on “[Fanfic] Why Won’t You Die? (3)

  1. Oh my dear Jo, this Dracula appears so endearing under your pen (or computer keyboard, I may say). I’ll finish the rest of part III tomorrow *sleepy*


    1. Honestly, I’m not entirely trying to be in character with Drakie. There’re several aspects I don’t like about the series’ Dracula so this Drakie is more of my own version of Dracula.


  2. Alexander stared at his reflection for half a minute before bringing his hands to his face, messaging the muscles.
    -> Massaging
    “He owns me a scarf and a shirt. Next time we meet, I’ll be sure to remind him.”
    “My name is Dorian Gray. Should Mr. Grayson ask, please tell him he still owns me a burgundy silk scarf and…”
    -> owes
    A few trivial typing mistakes I notice and dare to point out. Apart from those, I particularly enjoy the formal vocabulary and subtle humor. I have some questions though:
    1. Is Renfield an immortal? If he isn’t, who will take care of Drakie after Renfield is gone?
    2. I can’t recall Dori has a butler named Raziel at all @_@


    1. Thanks. I really appreciate your pointing out my mistakes. Being an editor doesn’t mean you won’t make silly mistakes.

      To answer your queries:
      1. Renfield is perfectly normal. Once Renfield’s gone, Dori and Drakkie will take care of each other. If they’re still alive, that is. I’ve found a way to kill Dori.

      2. Razz is sad bc you don’t remember his existence. He debuts in chap 2 and he’s Keeper to Dori’s secrets, as Renfield is Drakki’s.


      1. That’s because I created Raziel, as well as some other characters.

        Well, not everyone wants to be a vampire. Moreover, canonically, Drakkie believes vampirism is a a curse, a punishment. He said so when he turned Lucy – to punish her for her affair with Jonathan, which upset Mina.


    1. I believe we all have FOMO to various degrees; especially now when the uses of facebook, twitters and others have only worsened the symptoms. I’m pretty sure I suffer from it too, though the level is unknown to me.

      I think my friend is doing her best to ignore me. We havent talked for months. I texted her, asking if she would want to see a movie with me, to which she replied she was busy.That was the last time we ‘talked’. Then she just wouldn’t reply. Last night I tagged her in a status, hoping she would talk to me. She did, to others, not me.

      Anw, I’m a procrastinator myself. There’ve been many nights when I told myself to write but I ended up lying on the couch and watch something. I did promise to bring Death and his child back. Still havent mustered enough inspiration to do it. You see, inspiration and motivation are everything to us amateurs. If you ask for my advice, I’ll say do it when you feel like it. If you dont, just dont. Otherwise the product would feel forced.

      If I were to be immortal, I’d prefer to be young. I’d probably go through a lot of emotional crises too, but I’d manage it. I’d try things I can’t as mortal. In the end, I’d probably become like Dorian.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Sorry to hear that about your friend. I have many friends, too, but if I had to tell which one I can bare my thoughts to, the name popping up in my mind might not be any of them. Different mindsets build up an invisible wall between us, whenever we talk. I have these two friends whom I consider my best friends, the three of us have known each other since kindergarten. I went through elementary school, middle school and part of my high school time with them. At some point in our school life, we were called “the trio of the class.” They were my source of strength, inspiration, encouragement and perhaps they will allways be. Yet when I spend time with them, I can’t help but feel like a third wheel. Amongst the three of us, I’m the least intelligent one but the most eccentric. I remember my teacher once said to me “You’re still a naive child.” I keep telling myself that each person is destined to a different path, but it doesn’t feel good always looking at your friend’s back. I think the problem lies within me, not them. Will I ever figure it out?

    The advantage of immortality is that I would have all the time to do things I love, like practicing piano or learning languages. What heavenly days! But it’s most likely I would get exhausted after a few hundred years.

    I just found out that my co-worker used to work at Thaihabooks as a marketer. I told her I could be an editor and read all the books I want. She replied, you would take forever to edit a book, things would never get done on time. Do you agree with her =))

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Your colleague was right. It feels like it takes forever to edit a book. All sorts of errors pop out. You’re done with it once, you get a ‘cleaner’ script, you read it again and a bunch of new errors come out to say hi. Even after the third or the fourth, there’s not guarantee your script is error-free.
      Things get extra-funny when you have to correct you junior colleagues’ corrections. They’re new to the job so they miss a lot of tricky errors. Or they correct wrongly. I’ve spending weeks to correct my colleagues’ scripts while my own lay inside the drawer, untouched.
      I don’t love my job but I’m good at it so I bear with it.


  4. It’s great being a grammarist. It’s even better to come across another grammarist who knows how it feels seeing grammatical mistakes. In the fast pace of modern life, people tend to ignore the details and just want to get things done quickly. No offense but a part of me usually regards it as “disrespectful to the language” when someone never tries to speak a foreign language properly, at least to a certain extent. You keep listening to silly errors and the speaker keeps repeating the same errors *sign* I’m fully aware of the difference between “daily life language” and academic language, but still…


    1. I still appreciate people who speak/ write with proper grammar. It shows they’re being serious and respectful to their listeners/ readers.
      This aspect makes me feel snobbish sometimes, but I admit I can’t stand bad-grammared speeches. There’s a guy who showed interest in me (probably in my face only) and he commented on my posts. Let’s say English isn’t his strong point. Sometimes I barely grasped what he was saying. I couldn’t tell him how his language bugged without sounding snobbish. So I stayed silent.


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