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1891 England. 20th Century
Bram Stoker sat at the end of the bar and lifted his ale to his lips, watching as four large men walked across the room and sat at a table.
They had a look of aristocracy about them, however, there was something more. Something that made a man keep one eye on them.
As a writer, he would describe them in one of his novels as menacing-looking fellows, dressed in the high quality tailored black suits of the time, with bodies far too bulky and tall to go unnoticed. Their demeanor was dark, confident, and dangerous.
The men winked at the barmaids playfully, which did nothing to lessen the dark aura about them, and yet the women were tripping over themselves to serve them.
Women.
He gave his head a small shake and returned his attention to his notebook.
Bram was currently staying in Whitby, on the Yorkshire Coast, to write his novel. His wife and family would join him in six months, and he was determined to have a first draft ready by the time they arrived.
It was plenty of time. If he knew what he was going to write. The seaside town had a moody feel to it, which was perhaps why he was projecting menacing characters onto the men across the room from him.
“Another ale, sir?”
“Thank you, yes,” he replied to the barman.
“Don’t mind them.” He tipped his chin at the new arrivals. “They’re regulars, and usually no trouble despite their appearance.”
He glanced behind him again and let out a little laugh. One man had pulled a woman onto his lap and was nuzzling into her neck. Heat flushed through his body as he noticed his hand slip under the woman’s dress and push her legs apart.
Bram’s pants tightened when she arched in the way women did as they were being penetrated.
“Good to hear.” He cleared his throat. “A question, if I may. Am I mistaken in my summary of their attire? They appear to be aristocrats.”
He was now questioning his judgement after his observation.
“Aye, you’re right. They are. However, I’m not about to complain about their patronage.”
He took the beer from the barkeep and thanked him. Lifting the glass, he peered over again and noticed one man watching him. There was a warning in his dark eyes, which looked as if they belonged to someone far older, despite his youthful appearance.
Sloshing his beer on the counter, he looked away.
A chill ran down his spine, and Bram considered hastily retiring for the evening. He wasn’t a coward, but in his experience, when one ignored their instincts, it was never wise.
It was late, in any case. He folded his notebook and placed it in his inside pocket, taking a last swig of his drink. He then picked up his hat, nodded farewell to the barkeep, and made his way to the entrance.
As he reached the nondescript brown door, it came flying at his face, followed by three men. He fell on his ass and caught himself before his head followed.
“Moretti!” One of the men boomed in a strong Italian accent.
The table of men snarled and jumped to their feet. Standing with their legs wide, the menace he’d perceived was now on full display.
“Step back.” The shorter of the men said, holding up a hand in warning.
“I lay down my challenge. Here and now.”
All the men froze.
“Fuck, here we go. Are you jesting, Russo?” one of the cheekier men said, rolling his eyes.
“Brayden.” The man placed a hand on the others shoulder, quieting him. Then he stepped forward. He had a fatherly vibe despite appearing of similar age. “Roberto Russo. You choose this public place to challenge me?”
He had a quiet, powerful aura about him as he spoke in a calm, deep voice. Bram noticed it was the same man who had caught his eye across the room.
“You have increased our taxes yet again, and now my sister has mated with one of your males. It’s the last straw.” the man growled.
Two of the men sniggered.
“Hey, you brought Lucinda to the ball. Not our fault.” one of them said.
“Poor Tom.”
“No, she’s not an idiot like her brothers.”
“Quiet.” The powerful man said, not bothering to glance behind him.
He was obeyed.
Bram got to his feet and brushed off his pants. The conversation was making no sense whatsoever. What was mating? Aside from the marriage bed act, and if so, it was outrageous these men were discussing it so loudly in public.
“If you wish to follow through on your challenge, then come to the castle an hour before dawn, and you shall have your opportunity.”
Did he mean a duel?
Bram was about to draw to their attention such an act was illegal, but he thought better of it.
“The throne will be mine, Moretti. Mark my words,”
“Hello. Am I invisible?”
“He has two sons, remember.” The cheeky one pointed between himself and the man next to him, grinning. “Princes. Heir to the throne. Do I need to talk slower?”
“Brayden, for god’s sake.” The man shook his head, frustrated. “Shut. Up.”
Princes? Son’s?
They looked nothing like the royal family, and more to the point, all the men looked the same age.
Bram looked from face to face then landed on the apparent father. He held Bram’s stare for a moment, then slowly looked back at Roberto.
“Go. Leave now. We will clean up your mess and see you at dawn.”
The men plowed out the door after throwing out a handful of curses and threats. Bram scrambled on the floor to find his hat, and without looking back, he headed for the door. His hand was an inch from pulling it open when he heard the click.
Bother.
He slowly turned and found the supposed father standing directly behind him with a regretful expression.
“I’m sorry, my friend, you cannot leave just yet.”
