The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen

TWENTY The Nautilus

In Minas cabin at night, Gray produced a flask and a pair of delicate glass cups. He poured a shot of the rich, tan liquid for Mina, then one for himself. "Nightcap? It's the finest Spanish amontillado, very old. I found it inside a walled-up cellar in an old villa."

"I'm not much of a drinker," Mina said. She licked the corner of her lips. Unless its hot and fresh and red…

She remembered strolling with Dorian Gray after dusk through the streets of London, long, long ago. Her husband Jonathan had been dead for five years already, slain while defeating the evil Dracula. Her own life had been filled with shadows since then, her days of dazzling sunshine and carefree laughter gone—

Dorian had seemed so suave, so self-assured… so full of himself. They had walked through the gardens, playfully hiding and seeking in a convoluted shrubbery maze, but Mina had had an unfair advantage over him, an animal instinct that always allowed her to track her

prey. Dorian had quickly lost interest in the activity, and next they had gone to the zoo after dark. Very few other visitors walked the paths, and the animals themselves dozed, either overfed or simply resigned to their fates. But as he and Mina strolled along, the caged beasts grew restless. Tigers growled and paced, gorillas snorted and hooted, an ibex and a wildebeest withdrew skittishly to the far corners of their pens.

At the time Mina had thought it was her scent, the cloying air of death around her, the dark aura of vampirism… but perhaps the animals had been just as nervous about Dorian Gray.

The two of them had gone to the opera very late, dressed in their finest clothes. Dorian had a private box, one of the plushest and most expensive in the opera house. Mina had felt everyone staring at them, then turning away. She knew of Mr. Gray's numerous dalliances with exotic women of all kinds, from dark Abyssinian princesses, to beauties from China or Sumatra, to veiled Arabic women who exuded tantalizing perfumes. By comparison, Mina Harker must have looked terribly plain and mundane.

If she had shown her fangs, though, she supposed she might have been sufficiently exotic.

Dorian had sensed the intriguing, special quality within her. Mina doubted he knew the truth about her; but even if he had, she didn't think he would have shown fear or loathing — only amused fascination.

They had eaten a large dinner at a very late hour, the darkest and most comfortable time before dawn. Two thick steaks, rare and dripping — exactly the way Mina liked them, since her change.

Afterward, Dorian had poured them each a glass from an ancient squat bottle coated with dust from the deepest alcove of his cellar. The port wine was deep crimson, thick and sweet. Like the blood of a nobleman…

Now, in her cabin aboard the Nautilus, he offfered her another drink. "Just a small one, then." He passed the glass to Mina, and she took it, absently clenching her powerful, alabaster hand. The fine glass broke, spilling the amontillado and cutting open her palm.

"How clumsy of me." Her green eyes flashed as she looked at the open wound.

Gray took her soft hand and dabbed it with his handkerchief. "We don't want blood everywhere." He pressed the cloth hard against the cut.

"No," Mina said, her voice growing hoarse. "Not blood." She pulled away the reddened handkerchief and looked at her own bloody hand, which quickly healed itself. Her pulse began to race, her cold skin flushed, as if from some inner fever. Her mouth was very dry.

Then! Mina looked up at Gray with clear intent. Their eyes met.

She let the red-stained handkerchief fall to the floor, her wound already gone. They kissed passionately as they bumped the table, rattling but not breaking her chemistry paraphernalia.

Seeking a safer place, they fell together to the narrow cabin bed.