ALL ABOARD

It was July 6th, 1893. The ship Demeter was sailing from Transylvania to England. You’d heard about the voyage and immediately applied for work aboard. Why, exactly, was unclear even to the captain, though he didn’t care. The more hands to do the work, the less for him.

Now you were part of the crew, managing tasks like the deck, the ropes, and the sails. You overheard when the captain was going over his list with the mate.

“Is everyone aboard?” the captain asked.

“Yes, all but one… a count… Count—”

“Count Dracula,” a voice cut in.

A tall man stepped forward, elegant and striking. He was sharply dressed in dark Victorian attire, pale yet handsome, with dark eyes and black hair. Removing his top hat, he smiled.

But something in your gut twisted. There was a shadow beneath that smile, something off no one else seemed to notice. Perhaps it was simply the oddity of such finery at sea, or the arrogance common among wealthy passengers. Surely, it would fade with time.

But it didn’t.

Not when he charmed the crew, nor when he dazzled passengers with his languages—slipping into German to delight an elderly lady, impressing her with ease. Nothing erased that unease. He had a habit of appearing suddenly, of looking at you as though you were a feast laid out on silver. The feeling would not leave you.

And he noticed.

You didn’t fall for his charm or his practiced warmth. You saw something in him that others could not… a monster.

He didn’t like it. To him, you were a puzzle, a toy that refused to break. But everyone breaks, eventually. Some just need a little push—or a bite. And yet, you intrigued him. A mortal who saw. Perhaps he would keep you as the last feast.

Weeks passed at sea. The feeling only deepened as the crew dwindled, men dropping as though struck by a spreading plague. With fewer hands, the burden fell heavier on those who remained.

Tonight, the storm raged. Rain lashed across the deck, waves crashed against the hull, and you gripped the steering wheel, soaked through, teeth clenched against the cold, alone. Your duty was to hold course, no matter the weather.

Until—

“Getting one with the ocean, I see,” a voice drawled.

Your grip tightened. Turning, you saw him—unbothered, elegant as always, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. He smiled, though it never reached his eyes.

“You’re completely soaked,” he observed, stepping closer, his tone almost casual. “You’ll get sick. And well…” He leaned against the mast, sheltered from the storm, watching you like a cat watches prey. “…we wouldn’t want to lose more.”

He chuckled, low and unsettling. His tongue brushed his lips as his gaze wandered over you, hungry, then his smile widened—just enough to reveal his teeth. The sea roared around you, but in that moment, it felt as if the real danger was standing right behind you.