It's the Pictures That Got Small
by Julia Osmond
Lucard had thought it might be difficult to recognize him without the heavy makeup he always wore in his movies, but, as it happened, some things were the same for Jonas Carey on and off-screen. The melodramatic poses and exaggerated gestures the "man of many faces" was making as he sat disgruntledly at a back table at the restaurant would have identified him anywhere. Lucard studied him as he sat at his own table, nursing some vile-tasting illicit drink that no doubt had been used to strip furniture before it had been bottled. The actor was clearly half-drunk, muttering loudly to himself and anyone else who would listen.
"They think they can just get rid of me! Me! Jonas Carey, the greatest monster of them all! They'll live to regret it!"
Lucard smiled contemptuously. The man was as much of a fool as he'd thought. He would be an easy target, later. Still, out of habit, he bent his head, concentrating to catch his words over the bustle of the restaurant. It was best to know everything about one's prey before moving in for the kill, especially when one was hunting in such unfamiliar territory.
It was jarring to listen to Carey's actual voice after watching him move silently across the screen so many times. It was not a good voice--not at all what one would expect. It sounded high-pitched, nasal, hardly appropriate for a hunchback or a werewolf, much less a vampire. Let alone Dracula! But that seemed to be what Carey was complaining to himself about now: he was grumbling dire things about the men who said he had no voice, who were out to ruin him. It didn't make much sense, but then neither did the fact that he'd found this 'star' at a bad table at the famous restaurant or that everyone around him seemed to be ignoring him uneasily, as if he were a good friend with the plague. Some misfortune must have befallen him. Lucard smiled again at that thought. Good. Or was it? If Carey really were suffering, his original plans might not be entirely satisfactory. Perhaps he should find out before acting.
He stood up and moved to the table, adopting the deferential yet excited manner that he'd seen 'fans' approach actors with several times since he'd arrived in Hollywood. "Excuse me, but are you Mr. ... Jonas Carey? The Jonas Carey?"
The man peered up at him through a haze of alcohol and cigarette smoke. "Yes. That is I," he said, automatically drawing himself up.
"Well," Lucard said heartily, "what a pleasant surprise this is! I have seen every one of your films. The Vampire's Tomb made a great impression on me."
"Really?" Carey swelled visibly.
"Oh, yes. It was...unforgettable. May I buy you a drink?"
"No, you may not," he said determinedly. "I may be unappreciated by the world, but I can still afford to treat a friend. Waiter!" He gestured to the waiter with sweeping imperiousness. "A special for my friend here. You see?" he added to the whole room, spreading his arms. "I still have my fans!" He smiled at Lucard. "Would you like my autograph?"
"Oh, you needn't go to the trouble--"
But Carey was already signing with his name, with several involved flourishes, on a napkin. Lucard thanked him and sat down, pocketing it. He wasn't above taking a souvenir, and this was going to be a memorable evening.
Two hours and a number of drinks later, Lucard had found out much more than he wanted to know. Carey had clearly been pining for an audience, any audience, and he'd told him everything without much prompting. It seemed that they were introducing sound into movies--Lucard had had to suppress a surge of vertigo, thinking of how recently film itself had been new and strange to him--and that the head of the studio that Carey worked for was making excuses not to cast him in further movies because of his voice. After two hours of that voice, alternately making melodramatic proclamations and whining pitifully, Lucard was entirely in sympathy with the man. Indeed, he felt he was a notable benefactor of mankind. But he kept nodding and agreeing in a discreet murmur, suppressing his distaste, as Carey drank and complained. As he sat there, he gave most of his thought--for it took very little to hold up his end of the conversation with Carey--to pondering the situation. Murder, though it could be enormously satisfying, was such a crude gesture. Perhaps, under the circumstances, he might be able to arrange something much more clever. Something more worthy of him, and of the affront...
Finally, the restaurant had emptied out, though Carey was oblivious to it. Lucard caught the glare of the hovering waiter and said softly, "Perhaps we should continue this discussion elsewhere?"
"Oh, yes." Carey fumbled in his pocket. "I know a speakeasy not too far from here..."
Outside, a soft, cool mist wisped through the air, a pleasant change from the overheated atmosphere of the restaurant. Carey had finally fallen silent, breathing deeply as he made his way with some difficulty along the quiet street. After several blocks of unsteady threading down the sidewalk, he stumbled over a curb, and Lucard caught him halfway down.
"Thank you," he said, sounding almost sober, "that was most kind." He looked up at Lucard, who was still holding him, and it was as if, for the first time that evening, he was actually seeing his companion. He grasped his shoulder, then quickly released it, looked away and got up with exaggerated dignity. "I don't think we need to go to the club, after all. My home is nearby. There we can find more than enough to drink."
Lucard assented with pleasure, thinking that it would be far easier to carry out his plans in privacy. He turned away to resume walking, but stopped when he realized Carey wasn't following him. He looked back at him and saw that the other was gazing at him with frank admiration. When their eyes met, he quirked up the corner of his mouth and said ironically, "If you're interested, that is."
There was no question as to what was stirring in those clear eyes. Lucard paused. He hadn't anticipated this. It was...inconvenient. Carey caught his hesitation and looked down. "Oh. I am sorry. I thought..." He tsked and shook his head. "It was good of you to talk to me for so long. Good evening."
Lucard shook himself. It wasn't like him to lose his nerve like this. Think of The Vampire's Tomb! How could he stumble at such a small obstacle? He reached out and caught Carey's sleeve. "Yes, I'm...interested."
"So," Lucard said, as they crossed the drawbridge and stepped through the gate, "you live in a...castle." Just like me. Except that mine overlooks a mountain range, not a golf course. He looked up. "Are those artificial cobwebs?"
"Isn't it glorious? Come, Alexander, in here!" Carey led him across the gloomy hall into what Lucard supposed was a living room. It was cavernous, but still crammed with gargoyles, tapestries, and photos of his various roles. "Ah, the magnificent loneliness and gloom of these old places!" He paused for a moment and added dryly, "Even if you do have to build them yourself." He turned to Lucard and flung his arms wide, declaiming again. "The perfect place to lurk and dream of vengeance!"
Lucard smiled. "Indeed!"
Carey crossed to a table and began making them drinks. "Here," he said, handing one, "this is far, far better than that rotgut they were serving in the restaurant. What puritanical fools, to try to impose temperance on us!"
"Yes, it seems very strange to me."
"Of course, you don't share our provincial customs. From what distant port do you hail?"
"A small country in Eastern Europe." He saw the look of faint disappointment on Carey's face, and drew himself up. He was going to have to play the role properly. He thickened his accent. "The old country. The land where all the legends of your films were born, where the fear of them still lingers in the night like the howl of the wolf."
The delighted look told him he'd made the right decision. "Why did you leave?"
"The war drove me forth."
"The dark visage of grim war frowned on your homeland?"
"It visited nightmares on the land the likes of which I have never seen. I, I was a nobleman there, a kindly lord to my faithful people. Now..." He stared with aristocratic gloom off into the distance. "Now there is nothing left for me anywhere."
"Are you an exile then? Wandering, lost, forever friendless, on foreign shores, always yearning for his home?"
He sighed deeply, pressing the back of his hand to his brow. "Yes."
"Ah, how tragic!"
He could have no conception, of course. Horrors like that had been common enough when he was a man, but the modern world had grown soft. It was not accustomed to real monsters. Lucard turned away and strolled the length of the room, trying to avoid observing the furnishings more closely and failing completely. One photo in particular, the largest one, caught his eye. It hung above the landing of the staircase, a larger-than-life print of Carey in The Vampire's Tomb. The actor, in heavy white makeup and a white-lined cape, was standing before a ruined castle. His arms were raised with a grotesque flamboyance; his fangs were bared, face contorted, as he menaced a maiden just out of the frame. Lucard stood and stared at the photo, trying to keep the mask of tragic melancholy on his face. This was what they all thought of him now. What a shock it had been to emerge into the modern world and discover that it regarded him as a joke. That it knew the name of Dracula, but as a figure of fun, a bogeyman out of old novels, something to frighten small children with. They'd live to regret it. Carey would--well, not quite live...
"Isn't that a fantastic still?" Carey joined him, sliding his fingers into the crook of his arm. "How I conveyed the utter desolation, the terror, the despair of the vampire!" Lucard shut his eyes, not answering. "Did you know that my character was supposed to be Dracula himself? But the director didn't want to pay the Stoker estate. Maybe it was just as well. A lot of people wouldn't take a film about Dracula seriously--"
Lucard turned to him and kissed him fiercely, shoving him up against the wall. Carey's mouth was unpleasantly clammy and his technique was as poor as could be expected. Worst of all, his response was enthusiastic. Still, Lucard held him until he could feel him grow short of breath, then reluctantly released him.
Carey stared at him, the expression in his eyes strange, almost mournful. He said slowly, "You are the most beautiful creature I've ever seen."
He didn't think he could stand to hear that voice utter one more word. "Let us not speak. My heart is full."
"Words, words cannot begin to express the passion in my soul!" Carey wrapped an arm around his waist and started up the stairs.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, Lucard thought, and let himself be led.
The bedroom was decorated like the rest of the house and dominated by a large curtained bed. Carey began moving about the room, lighting candles. While Lucard waited, he noticed with alarm the large mirror on the wall. It commanded most of the room, though Carey was, at the moment, turned away from it. That would be useful later, but now--
He stepped up behind Carey and pulled him backwards, then pushed him face down onto the bed. Carey rolled over, laughing. Lucard's stomach tightened with distaste, but he sat on the bed next to the other, pinned his arms above him with one hand and ripped at his shirt with the other. The buttons exploded off most satisfactorily and a swath of fabric came away in his hand. Carey was still giggling, and Lucard clamped his free hand over his mouth, then bent to nuzzle his neck.
He could smell the blood there. That, at least, was attractive. The position he was in was awkward, so he slid his weight on top of Carey, holding him down as he wriggled. Carey's heart was pounding madly and Lucard could almost convince himself as he ran his teeth along the other's skin that his bucking was entirely an attempt to get away. Not that he could get away, of course; Lucard's grip was merciless, and he kept tightening it, almost feeling the bones move under his hand. This was good, almost as good as killing him. If only I had the proper tools here--
He stopped. Tempting as it was, this was not the way. Reluctantly, he loosened his grip and rolled off the other man, who was gasping loudly. After a minute, he turned his head and gave Carey a cautious look. He was staring at him wide-eyed.
Lucard cursed silently.
"I'm sorry, Jonas, if I startled you. I--I was carried away by an irresistible passion." He smiled apologetically, and saw the other relax.
"Of course," he smirked. "You are with me. One of the greatest lovers this town has ever known." He began kissing him again, and this time Lucard yielded, let him pull off their clothing and draw the curtains. Lucard shut his eyes as Carey knelt over him and began caressing him. The air inside the curtains was stuffy, suffused with the cologne of the other man and...something else, a vaguely familiar scent of heavy spice. He must have lit a stick of incense along with the candles. The smell made him strangely uneasy. The other man's hands and mouth were all over him, and his penis was pressing heavily on his leg. He was larger than Lucard, and the weight of his body seemed to push him deep into the blankets. Lucard had a most peculiar sensation of being out of control, yet he was unable to act. The other man was rolling him over as he struggled for his breath, then easing a finger into him--
He had the man by the arm and was flinging him off the bed. There was a cry of astonishment and pain from the floor. "Ow! Alexander, what do you think you're doing? You nearly broke my arm! You could ruin my career!"
Lucard rubbed his face savagely. It was 1929. He was in America--Los Angeles. He was having sex with Jonas Carey. An actor in bad horror films. The idea was so ridiculous he had to smother a laugh. He got up and made his way to the nearest window, which he threw open. The air was cool on his face. He thought he could smell the ocean.
"Alexander? Have you...have you gone mad?"
The alarmed break in the theatrical tone made him turn around. He saw Carey looking at him nervously, rubbing his wrist. His plan was falling to pieces. He groped for words. "Jonas, I apologize. I did not intend to hurt you. I simply--"
Lucard had had a great deal of experience in explaining inconvenient facts away, but he found himself, for the moment, at a loss. However, a light was dawning in Carey's eyes.
"Someone...forced you?" he said with startled gentleness.
"I--" He took a breath, steadied himself. This was the way. "Yes."
Carey's expression was appalled. "Oh, Alexander. I'm so sorry." He moved to him and touched his shoulder tentatively, as if he were afraid of hurting him with the gesture. "The horror of it all..."
Seeing the pity in his eyes, Lucard wanted to finish what he had begun earlier on the bed. He clenched his fist instead. "I was much younger. I didn't think I still..."
Carey shook his head and wrapped his arms around him. "There are such monsters in the world," he murmured in his ear. "You're not to blame."
"But I should have--"
"Shh." Carey was stroking his hair. He wanted to pull away; wanted to go out and find something to kill, to drive away the memory of that sudden feeling of being the prey and restore order to the universe. But he knew that he could use this. So he let Carey coax him back into the bed and pull the sheets up over him. He made himself clutch mutely at the other's arm when he started to move away from the bed. "Don't worry," Carey said softly, "nothing can hurt you here." The other man quickly blew out the candles and settled himself in a chair near the bed.
"You don't have to sleep there," Lucard protested rather perfunctorily. Inwardly, he was relieved at the thought of not having to endure any more of Carey's kindly touch.
Carey smiled. "It's all right. I think I'll sit up a while. Just try to rest."
Lucard put an arm over his face and willed himself to relax. That had been avenged a long time ago.
Perhaps an hour had passed when he opened his eyes again.
At last, he could finish this.
Carey sat up as he stirred. "Are you feeling any better, Alexander?" It was strange, how normal his voice could be.
"A little." He sighed. "I did not mean to burden you with my troubles, Jonas."
"You were good enough to listen to mine," he said simply. "It was the least I could do."
"But you have been very kind to me. I should like to offer you something in return."
"I don't need money. And we don't have to try again."
"That is not what I meant."
"Oh?"
"You believe that your career is coming to an end, don't you?"
There was a long silence. Finally, he admitted, "Yes."
"It does not have to happen."
"What do you mean?"
It was Lucard's turn to pause, to try to savor the pleasure of the revenge he had planned for this moment. "Jonas, what would you say if I told you that I could make you the greatest star of all?"
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