Chapter 87: First meeting

Milanda Hotel

This three-story brick-and-wood building has stood in the suburbs of London for nearly a century, its outer walls covered in ivy, which after the rain's washing appears especially lush and green.

Although the interior décor is somewhat old, the fireplace fire remains warm, and the beds are always dry and comfortable.

Whenever it rains, this place becomes the best shelter for travelers—no one wants to brave the storm on the road, most people choose to rest here, wait for the rain to stop before departing, or simply stay overnight.

The carriage stopped in front of the hotel, its wheels rolling over the muddy puddle and splashing up a spray of murky water.

Jonathan Hark opened a black umbrella, quickly walked to Dracula's side, and shielded him from the torrential rain.

"Gentlemen, do you need any help? For example, taking care of the horses only costs three shillings, and we have the finest feed here!"

"All right." Jonathan handed three shillings to the hotel's ostler, then followed Dracula inside the hotel.

Upon entering, the damp smell of wood mixed with the fragrance of burning pine from the fireplace hit them.

The floor had been trampled wet by coming and going guests, stained with muddy footprints.

Jonathan went to the front desk to check in, while Dracula stood to the side, his gaze slowly sweeping the lobby—several merchants sat by the fireplace, talking in low voices; in the corner, a lady wearing a hat was reading with her head down; at the bar, a few drunken men raised their mugs of ale and laughed loudly.

Soon, Jonathan returned with two keys, followed by a servant.

"Mr. Dracula, your room is on the third floor with a fine view." Jonathan said:

"If you need anything, you can call me at any time, or have the servant let me know."

"I know." Dracula gave a slight smile and patted his shoulder:

"Don't treat me like a clueless little baby, hahaha."

Jonathan also laughed: "You're quite humorous."

The two followed the servant upstairs, the wooden stairs creaking softly under their feet.

Upon reaching the third floor, Jonathan entered his room, already eager to change clothes and take a refreshing hot shower.

Meanwhile, Dracula stood by the hallway railing, looking down from above onto the lobby.

His gaze wandered over the guests, as if casually scanning them yet also searching for something.

Then his gaze stopped on the person who had just pushed the door open.

It was a man.

He wore a dark brown long coat, its hem soaked by rain and clinging to his boots.

Under the coat was a simple black waistcoat and a white shirt, with a silver cross pinned at the collar.

His features were angular, his gray-blue eyes sharp as a hawk's; beneath his thick brows lay a faint scar running from the brow bone to the temple, like a mark of some battle.

His blond hair had already turned somewhat gray‑white, and after being drenched by rain it looked even more weather‑worn, yet the man as a whole did not appear old.

He shook the rain from his hat, glanced around the lobby, then walked toward the front desk.

He had only gone halfway when, perhaps sensing Dracula's gaze, he turned his head back.

But he saw nothing.

An illusion?

The man shook his head, stopped thinking about it, and went to the front desk; rain dripped from the lower hem of his coat onto the oak floor.

"How much for a night?"

His English was not very standard, spoken with a thick Dutch accent.

The servant pushed up his glasses and handed over a rate sheet: "From one shilling to ten shillings, sir. You can look at the price list."

The man's eyes quickly scanned the rate sheet, his long finger pointing to the top line:

"The ten‑shilling room with a bath."

He took ten shillings from his inner pocket and placed them on the counter; the metal striking the wood made a clear sound.

"May I have your name?" the servant said, picking up a quill pen.

"Abraham Van Helsing."

The servant neatly wrote the name in the register, then took a brass key from the drawer:

"Room 311 on the third floor is yours."

"Thank you." Van Helsing took the key and turned toward the stairs.

Arriving at the door of 311, just as he inserted the key into the lock, his motion suddenly halted.

His nostrils twitched, his gray‑blue eyes suddenly narrowed—that familiar scent, a blend of ancient sandalwood and rotting blood.

The smell of a vampire!

A silver dagger slid silently from its sheath, gleaming coldly in the dim hallway.

He slowly turned, following the scent deeper into the hallway, his soles making no sound on the floor.

Until.

He stopped at room 308.

Van Helsing raised his left hand and tapped three times on the door of 308 with his knuckles.

His right hand remained hidden at the side of his coat, the silver dagger held at an angle ready to thrust.

With a "click," the door opened.

Dracula stood in the doorway, his complexion flushed just like a normal person's.

He wore an exquisite black velvet dressing gown, the collar revealing a snowy‑white shirt, the gold cufflinks catching the light.

"What can I do for you?" His voice was gentle as winter sunshine, a perfectly measured smile playing at his lips.

Van Helsing's gaze swept over him like a hawk, finally settling on Dracula's right wrist—there hung two oddly shaped fang‑shaped pendants, one sharp as a fang, the other curved like a wolf's bite.

Dracula followed his gaze and lifted his wrist: "This is a gift from my friend."

"He said one is a vampire's fang, the other a werewolf's fang."

"Wearing it lets them take me as one of their own, keeping me safe."

Van Helsing's pupils narrowed slightly, but his expression remained unchanged.

The silver dagger slipped silently back into its sheath, and he gave an apologetic smile: "So that's how it is."

"Sorry, I am a doctor who specializes in studying Vampires; I smelled their scent, which is why I disturbed your rest. My apologies."

Dracula gestured gracefully, "No need to apologize. You are a doctor who studies Vampires?"

A playful glint flashed in his eyes: "It so happens I'm also interested in this area; may I have the honor of chatting with you?"

"Sure," Van Helsing nodded slightly, "but allow me to Wash first, and change my clothes."

He pointed to his still‑dripping trench coat: "This attire is really unsuitable for conversation."

"Of course," Dracula nodded, then watched Van Helsing turn and walk away.

The door opened and closed again.

It vanished from sight.

Dracula closed the door, murmuring softly:

"A doctor who specializes in studying Vampires..........?"