Nosferatu the Vampyre Read Online Free PDF

left, and brushed and ribboned her hair. If she only showed him a little kindness, surely he’d agree to help her. And why not give him the kiss she knew he craved? He’d do anything then. He’d probably turn the nightmare off like a faucet.
    With a parasol twirling over her shoulder, she went through the town to the market square. And all along the canals, they said that Lucy Harker was looking better at last. They knew she would come to her senses by and by. She crossed the market and turned into the little courtyard of Renfield and Company, but in a moment she found that the door was locked. The dust and disarray inside told her the office probably hadn’t been open since Jonathan left. As if the business Jonathan had in his pouch were all the business the company had.
    But Lucy was undaunted. She made her way through narrow streets to the oldest quarter of the town. When she came to Renfield’s gate, she saw she was in luck. He was darting around the sunny yard, butterfly net in hand. She could do it all in the garden, she thought. She didn’t need to steel herself to the musty reaches of his house. She called his name as prettily as she could, and he waved hello but held his finger up to tell her to wait. He was on the trail of a red-winged beauty, and just this moment it lighted on a yellow tulip.
    He stalked it, stealthy as a panther. Net in the air, he moved by inches toward the tulip. He really was a very harmless man, she thought. Eccentric, full of humor. She began to think he would have an answer to all of her fears. With surprising speed, he brought the net down over the flower and gave out a whoop. He grinned at Lucy the grin that never seemed to leave his face.
    “Cupraxis narcissima” he announced triumphantly.
    “Let me in, Mr. Renfield,” she called, rattling the gate with a white-gloved hand.
    He bent to the net, put his hand under, and brought out the crimson butterfly. He held it by the body between finger and thumb, and the wings flailed uselessly, trying to fly away. Now don’t be squeamish, she told herself. It was a very scientific hobby. Besides, she needed him too much right now to put him off with shuddering.
    “Bring it to me, Mr. Renfield. Let me see how pretty.”
    He sailed his hand back and forth in the air, as if he were letting it fly again, and his laugh went higher and higher until it was empty air. Then he brought his fingers up, close to his face, as if he meant to study it minutely. But he opened his mouth and stuffed it in. And chewed it like a cracker as he came toward the gate.
    It was evening in the Carpathians. The valley was high up, with the peaks of jagged mountains all around it. It had been raining for a month, and it was going to rain again, but just now the sky was heavy with clouds, the rain biding its sullen time. A muddy road wound its way through the pass and trailed along the valley to a weatherbeaten rural inn. The only glimmer of civilization in three days’ journey through the steepest country. A mail coach drawn by four tired horses approached along the way, and it was clear the coachman was a single-minded man determined to arrive before the fall of dark. He didn’t have a minute to spare.
    Next to the inn was an open blacksmith’s shop, with the forge aglow as the smith repaired a carriage. In the meadow beyond, a pair of chestnut horses chased in the high green mountain grass. As the coach came to a stop in front of the inn’s wide porch, the bearded coachman unwrapped from around himself a thick Tartar rug. He climbed down and rapped on the coach door to announce their arrival, just as the innkeeper came outside.
    “I see you’ve gone into horse-trading now,” he said, pointing to the roan tethered at the back of the coach.
    “Nothing so lucky,” the coachman said. “I picked up a passenger on the road. He’ll stay the night.”
    “You mean a guest?” asked the gray-faced innkeeper, wiping his hands on his apron, patting his tangled hair.