High Stakes

By Pamela Love

It was midnight when I reached my flat. I’d left Henry Wotton’s party early, fatigued by tedious debate over whether a heavier-than-air flying machine was possible, sparked by recent reports from the United States. As I stepped through the door, an intruder flung me against the wall, pinning me there with a powerful forearm.

No longer suffering from ennui, I spoke in a cool manner despite my racing heartbeat. “The Prince of Darkness, I presume?” I hoped a slight jest might lighten the mood and lessen the danger.

While not Satan, this was no common burglar. Over time, I’ve grown adept at judging others by their appearance. Flickering candlelight—fellow must’ve lit them while lying in wait for me—illuminated his aristocratic features: a noble brow, a widow’s peak of ebony hair, an aquiline nose, a face nearly as unlined as mine, yet somehow seeming vastly older. The luxuriant quality of the fabric against my neck confirmed wealth, as well as a flair for the dramatic. Who wears a cape these days? How tiresome. I must’ve insulted his sister or lured away his sweetheart. Good thing dueling’s out of fashion.

The man’s eyes flashed. “Return what is mine. I will not ask again, Dorian Gray.” He had a slight accent of some Romance language, his words flowing out through narrowly parted lips.

“I am Gray, sir, but I fear you have the advantage of me.” I rarely indulge in theft. When I do, it’s from one of the many ladies of my close acquaintance, not someone so formidable. Better find out what he’s after and give the dashed thing back. I forced a boyish smile. “Of what are we speaking?”

“Don’t play games with me.” His brows drew lower. “Rumors of your evil deeds over the course of many years, all belied by your fair face, have flown like bats throughout Europe. At last they have reached me.”

Gossip—I’ve caused plenty, admittedly with good reason. But this chap seemed downright deranged. Wait—I’ve heard scuttlebutt about a nobleman from Transylvania who’s moved to England. He’s supposed to be more than a bit dicey himself, and he wears a cape. What is his name? I bit my lip in concentration. “By any chance, are you Duke Dracula?”

He shook my shoulders. “You know who I am. You know only one substance preserves our youth. Liquid life, it courses through us. Like me, you know… the thirst.”

The thirst? This fellow didn’t strike me as a drunkard, and I knew many. He’s no dipsomaniac. Just an ordinary maniac. Better humor him. “You are welcome to drink whatever I possess. Be my guest.”

From out of nowhere, a knife swooped upward, a bridge from his fist to my throat. Games of chance were among my favorite pastimes, but I’d never played for higher stakes. “Show me the way.”

My stores of wine and liquor were anything but impressive. Why spend money on such things when I could imbibe for free at any party I wished? What I did have were mostly gifts from ladies of my acquaintance who desired a closer acquaintanceship. Still, if my tormentor swigged enough brandy to calm his nerves, perhaps he would relax sufficiently for me either to charm him into departing or to relieve him of his blade. I was hopeful as he turned on the gaslight and swung open the liquor cabinet. He pointed at a nearby Queen Anne chair. “Sit.”

He put my corkscrew to rapid use. Sipping from a dozen bottles, he spat each on my hand-knotted Chinese rug. I winced. “Bah! Where is it? Tell me, or taste Toledo steel—” He froze, staring over my head.

By then, the portrait was a pretty foul item. The twisted, leering, haggard face it depicted even gave me the shudders, though I recognized my debt to it. We were linked: I had the fun, while it suffered the consequences.

His brown eyes darted between the painting and myself. “That’s… you, isn’t it?” He dragged a fingernail across it.

I gasped at the pain of the scratch on my own cheek. “It is.”

His tongue touched his fingertip. “That’s it,” he crooned. “How did you come by this work?”

I shrugged. “An artist painted it. Simple as that.”

He swayed, his lower lip trembling. “He must have mixed the contents of my final bottle into this paint. I cannot renew my supply. Who and where is the artist? Quickly. My time grows short, unless he has any left.”

“Basil Hallward.” I gave the address. Wonder when Basil’s due back in England.

“Hallward robbed me to serve you.” He lifted a forefinger. “Be warned—the magic in this watercolor will not last forever. The day will come when your beauty ends.”

Turning away, he strode toward my door, then staggered, sinking to his knees. “Too late—the last of my strength is gone. I thought you were mocking me when you called me Dracula. I am…” He collapsed.

Uncharacteristically curious, I bent over to hear his last words as his voice faded away. Moments later, in the strangest sight that has ever met my eyes, he turned to dust, skeleton and all! It was like something out of a Gothic romance. Coughing, I backed away, wiping off my face and flinging my jacket to the floor.

As for his final message, it explained little. Who was Ponce de Leon? What the devil is the Fountain of Youth? More to the point, where is it? For if this madman was right, and my youth-sustaining portrait will eventually decay, then I must commission a replacement. Would’ve been more convenient if this wretch had died after describing the exact source of this vital ingredient. “Flor,” indeed! Still, Basil Hallward’s a clever chap. There can’t be that many fountains in Florence.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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