Marvel Re-Imagined: Daredevil
DC Re-Imagined: Hawkman
Rating: T (Just covering my bases)
Horror Inc: Dracula
Chapter One: Rain
It was a rainy, rainy day. Bloody weather. Normally I wouldn’t have gone out in weather like that, but when bread and butter is thin anyone will do anything just to rub two pennies together. This was much more than just two pennies. Let’s see what we’ve got here. Jonathan Harker, leaning close to the other half of his life, living in a flat in Liverpool that didn’t even have electricity or running water he’s that dirt poor. Bloody good thing it rained as much as it did, otherwise Jonathan Harker, your humble narrator ladies and gents, would stink like a mongrel and be very, very thirsty. I still needed to work on the smell, mind you. Don’t have enough buckets to get water enough for a proper bath.
Pulled the car off the road and up an old gravel path, which I’d been up many a time I can tell you that. Old property we’re talking here; big Victorian manor house. Not often I’d found myself invited to those sorts of places, but hey; customer wanted to keep in touch so Jonathan Harker isn’t going to say no. Particularly not when said customer is rolling in money; not just any money here, we’re talking stinking aristocrats money. Guy’s head would have been cut off just for breathing if he were in Robespierre France. Very fortunate thing he was in England where he could pay me for looking over property prices for him. Poor fellow, he still wasn’t particularly comfortable yet with the pound.
Climbed out of the car as soon as I came up to the gate; he’d only said come to the gate. Pulled out a fag and lit her up. Damn good thing the flame wasn’t hit by the rain; it was warm in my hands. Breathed in, breathed out; walked up and pounded against the iron-gate fence. Tips ended in spear points. Gate began to open, very creaky like though, and forced my way through the puddles swallowing the earth. There he was, old smug bastard, walking down the steps with a grin on his face and his hair combed nice. Me, I was a wet wreck with my hair dripping down my face. Looked like I’d swam the way there rather than driven, still, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and walked me in.
“I’m very, very glad you could make it here Mister Harker,” he said with the voice of a cultivated gentleman. Very posh it was, same with what he’d done with the place. It was very dark, very black, but he’d put up some marble statues and old paintings of mountains. Really gave the room the feel of a museum or something.
“Thanks for having me here Mister Tupolev,” I replied, stubbing my fag against my jacket. Damn thing was wet enough. “You just wanted me to look over some properties, yeah?”
“Yes I did,” he said, smiling with that smile. His teeth were very white, too clean. When I’d looked at mine in the mirror they seemed to have a yellow tinge to them. Never could understand why people had such perfect white teeth. “Would you like to sit by a fire and dry off first?”
I shook my head. Tupolev, he shook his head and looked down all disappointed. He played the rejected host. Not a very smart move there, Harker. Hesitantly I nodded my head and he lit up again, all happy, and led me through into his dining room. There was a big fireplace in the left wall; by big I mean you could burn three men in there. Looked like it too; the logs were like small trees or men screaming to be released. On the right wall was a picture of a Tupolev in a beard. He looked very much like my own Tupolev, but with more brown in his hair.
“Is he a relative?” I asked, pointing across at the painting. Tupolev, he followed my finger and nodded. I took a seat by the fire as he walked off to fetch something, probably wine. He looked like a wine type of fellow. With Tupolev gone I stared into the blackened corpses of the logs, watching their captive screams dancing in the flames, my own thoughts dwelling on that very fancy painting on the opposite wall with the same glimmer of knowing trapped in those oil eyes as in the eyes of my very one Tupolev. It was the sort of thing that sent shivers down your skin and, even if you were seated before a roaring fire of dancing orange, gave the wind a slight chill that pierced to your bones.