MURDER, BLOODY MURDER

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by J Dune
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|page=MURDER, BLOODY MURDER
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= **MURDER, BLOODY MURDER** - Introduction
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Written for the 2025 Public Domain Contest.

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The combined wages of the entire Munteanu Manor staff could not afford even the most trivial of accessories seen complimenting the outfits of the crowd assembled there tonight.

All of polite society’s hallmarks could be seen in the silk and wool: three piece suits that doubled as work clothes, jewelry passed from grandparents down, organza dresses destined for a life of wardrobe solitude after a single outing. The men were executives, moguls, and politicians— state and local; their wives were an afterthought. And even still, there were titans among giants: Hiyakawa and Cranston, both of California’s senators making a rare private appearance in tandem, Dustin Hoffman, on the prowl to secure a financial backer for a personal project, and an inebriated Ronald Reagan, who had cozied up to a stewardess who fetched the former governor an endless stream of water.

They had filled the ballroom for two hours now, and at tables played host to conversational warfare. William Stetson had seemingly deadlocked his group’s topic to the downturn in his portfolio, until Cynthia Allame saw an opportunity to seize control as a course of crema catalana was served, and suddenly a discussion regarding a charity scandal took hold. Carmilla Munteanu— one half of the Munteanu fortune and recipient of the majority of the night’s lip service— waited for an opportune moment to introduce her topic: Vincent Munteanu.

Vincent Munteanu, whose signs and posters lined every street corner, billboard, and bus shelter in Los Angeles. Vincent Munteanu, who visited a different school every day of the week for the past month. Vincent Munteanu, who had just finished brutally humiliating Robert Laplecce at the primaries in the most socially acceptable of ways. It was his graciousness and conviviality that had brought them all to his manor on that night, to celebrate a campaign that had exceeded expectations, and was certain to cement a bright future for the name Munteanu in Washington.

“He’s such a dear,” said Linda Grant. “He’ll even have the colored vote, with all of those programs!” The table laughed. “Those will be coming out of your pocket, Carm,” Stetson added, shoving down another spoonful of desert at the same time. The table laughed again.

Carmilla sat and listened, scouting for any indication of a negative word or backhanded compliment. Though in these circles, it was often just as difficult to discern praise from hatred. Peter Hawkins— sitting just behind the table which was apparently far enough from any Munteanu ears— carried on about the poor quality of the bread, yet continued to accept all of the lobster rolls put in front of him.

Of course, Carmilla’s table had nary a word of interest to relay back to her husband, who took pleasure in hearing high society’s conceitedness. “They’ll throw money at you and hope it’ll put you in a grave,” he once told her. Thankfully, neither of them had to worry about that.

“When is the speech, Carmilla? He can’t let us go the night without a speech. Not after that absolute massacre in North Hollywood,” Noples said, attempting to bait Stetson into defending Laplecce as he usually did.

“I’m not sure, how about I ask?” Carmilla said with a smile, excusing herself. Two hours was unusually late for him to not at least address the crowd, much less one as large and notable as this. She gazed across the ballroom to no avail, but caught her attention on a large group that had gathered in the back of the foyer. And the more she focused, the more she heard the bellowing voice of one Mr. Wolfe dominating the crowd, laughing and shouting, and indubitably drunk.

Vincent had told her to watch him. He always did. As a campaign manager, he did his job well enough. As a socialite, he was belligerent and prone to offend. Why Vincent kept him around for so many years escaped her. He didn’t share a blood connection like other members of the office, and he certainly wasn’t performing a specialized job. Carmilla stood near a faux-column and observed the way he unraveled. Wolfe was a large man, towering over the others by at least a foot. It wasn’t entirely out of the question that her husband kept him around as security.

Wolfe was in the middle of a loud account of how Harrison’s secretary had thrown herself at him on a flight back to LA. When Carmilla heard him first tell it two months ago, it was a flight attendant, and Harrison was present and had to watch. Wolfe seemed to take notice of Mrs. Munteanu midway through a hand-visualization of the secretary’s body, but had courtesy enough for the gaggle of listeners to finish the remark first. He pointed, and heads turned. Carmilla imagined sinking her teeth into their necks and draining to the bone.

“There she is! There she— is!” Wolfe said, approaching. He slung a massive hand around Carmilla’s shoulder, bringing her into the circle. Wolfe reeked of whatever imported wine he had been drinking, and considering the general stature of him, Carmilla figured he needed barrels of it to get like this. The drink stung her nostrils, emanating from Wolfe’s pours like a hot spring. “The first lady of Los Angeles,” he gloated, digging his thick digits into her collarbone.

Carmilla forced a smile and a ‘gentlemen’, but Wolfe continued on before she had the opportunity to say more. “That story I was telling, you know, she kind of looked familiar!” Wolfe interrupted, gesturing to Carmilla. This brought uneasy laughter, but laughter nonetheless. Carmilla was appalled, but not surprised. “Vince, you don’t think…” Wolfe said, making a faux-shocked face with both hands on his cheeks.

“What do I not think, Mr. Wolfe?” a voice said from the closest alcove. Carmilla relished in the sound. Vincent Munteanu stood, still managing a grin while preparing a politician’s take down of an unwanted guest. Carmilla read the weariness on his face, knowing that the campaign was taking its toll on her husband’s health.

“Ah, he makes an appearance!” Wolfe said, fingers still deep into Carmilla’s shoulder.

“My office, Mr. Wolfe. I would like to speak with you. And no, you cannot bring my wife,” Vincent said, turning towards the hallway. Wolfe finally loosened his grip and gestured goodbye to the crowd, who were now focusing their attention on Carmilla.

Wolfe and Munteanu continued down the ornate halls of the manor, dark and free from any guests.
“I hadn’t expected you back so soon,” Vincent said. “I planned this occasion around your availability.”

“Caught an early flight. Did everything I wanted to do on my vacation.” Wolfe’s voice had changed from uncouth and belligerent to a menacing drawl.

“Yes, I’m sure. The prospect of embarrassing me on the most important night of my career was a second vacation itself, is that it?”

“I’m not embarrassing you, Vladimir. Oh, if I wanted to embarrass you, there wouldn’t be any mistake about it. No, I’ll let you climb for now.”

“You reek of wine.”

“And you stink of blood.”

The two had reached Munteanu’s office. Vincent turned the key, and allowed Wolfe entry. The room was littered with awards, filing cabinets, and campaign posters. On the mahogany desk sat a burlap sack, its outline rounded in the shape of whatever was inside it, with a puddle of moisture pooling at its bottom. Wolfe laughed deeply, but no humor could be found in his cold, detached pleasure.

“Someone left a present,” Wolfe said.

“This is disgusting, even for you.”

“You opened it yet?”

Vincent cooled his rage. He still had control of the situation. Wolfe was in his house, filled with hundreds of witnesses, some of which even belonged to the same prestigious caste as Vincent and Carmilla themselves. They only had to say the word, and Wolfe would be dead. But then came the matter of postmortem— the dead men’s switches that Wolfe had repeatedly threatened had been set-up. Information that— if released to the public— would not only destroy Munteanu’s political ambitions, but would likely see him locked up in the highest security level of a facility somewhere in the Mojave. It had been nearly a hundred years since he had gone to war with the Foundation. He was not equipped to do it again. And so, Wolfe’s transgressions had to be tolerated— for now.

“Go on, Count,” Wolfe continued. “Open it.”

Vincent slowly moved towards his desk, and took hold of the sack. He knew what it was, just not who. The blood seeping from the bottom of the fabric made him salivate, and Munteanu cursed his savage impulses. He opened the bag, and turned it on its side, shaking and guiding the object out. It wetly slapped against the wood, and Vincent became speechless as he looked at his cousin’s face.

The skin had taken on a white-blue tone, its natural, sun-allergic hue. Long, stingy black hair clung to the side of the head, and onto the lulled tongue that hung out from its mouth. The cut was clean, likely dealt in a single blow, with hardly a piece of skin below the top of the neckline. In place of eyes were hollow sockets, scooped clean of the muscle and depriving the head of its last vestiges of humanity.

“Sold the eyes already,” Wolfe taunted. “Big market for vamp eyes these days. Funny, everybody wants a piece of you guys.”

“You’ve violated our agreement, Mr. Wolfe,” Vincent said, maintaining his composure while continuing to stare at the grotesque visage before him. “Orlok was a cousin. You knew this. You do not kill within my family. Are those not the terms we’ve settled upon?”

“Orok was up to some bad stuff, Count. I couldn’t let it slide. Not me.”

Vincent moved in, and Wolfe met his approach. The two had deliberately brought themselves within striking range of one another. Vincent gagged at the smell of wine.

“There will be consequences,” Munteanu said.

“Sure. Do your thing, Drac. I’ve been waiting for you to slip up and try to kill me. Because I’d love to kill you. I’d love to kill you, and that bitch of yours, and all the other bloodsuckers you’ve got planted out there. I reckon I could take them all.”

Vincent snarled, barring his fangs for but a moment. “Then why not try?”

“Because I’ve got to let you climb, Count. I’ve got to see what this whole… political thing is building to. When all the bats are in Washington’s belfry, yeah, that’s when I’ll try. Until then, you just keep giving me names. Keep paving that trail of blood, and I’ll keep spilling it for you. Eventually that little Dracula brood of yours will be all that’s left. And what then?”

“And then we will kill you, Beowulf.”

Wolfe used to wince at the mention of his true name, but tonight, he was unwavering. Just as Count Vladimir Dracula had persisted into modernity, so did the warrior-king of Geats, and like any living legend, his continued survival was dependent on his ability to adapt to the ebb and flow of the ages.

“You’ll give me another name and location next week, is what you’ll do. I want a stimulating hunt this time, you hear? Else I’ll have to make my own entertainment again.”

“This ends tonight.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Like I’ve always said, end the agreement anytime you want, we’ll play war. I’ve got packets of evidence ready to send to every damn news outlet and federal agency in the country. You even touch me and they’ll all now.”

Vincent backed away just slightly. Wolfe nodded, and walked himself to the door while still maintaining a line of sight.

“Think they want a speech out there,” Wolfe said as he reached the hall. “Better get that cleaned up.”

Vincent clawed a stack of papers off the side of his desk, hissing in frustration. At the death of Orlok, at Wolfe’s brazen confidence, and at himself, for letting it lead to this point.

Wolfe had initially confronted Munteanu after a city council meeting 2 years ago. The man had made it very clear about who he was and what his intentions were, and more importantly— what he knew. The two struck a barbaric agreement. Wolfe would remain at a distance from the Dracula brood, while the Count fed him the names and locations of other vampires in order to satiate the ancient hunter’s bloodlust. He started with the most difficult— outcast broods and those entrenched in the occult crimes, hoping to ensnare the hunter in a game too dangerous to win. But every few months, Beowulf would return virtually unscathed, with his targets eliminated.

There was no shame in the deaths themselves. Broods were always at war. And with how scrutinized his own had become over the past century, ridding himself of rivals was out of the question. But it was not the deaths that bothered him, it was the deceit. Using a hunter was indebting himself— and his kin— to that hunter. Beowulf hadn’t left him a choice, and regardless of how pure Vincent Munteanu’s intentions were in securing public office for himself, the scent of blood would always be gathering underneath the surface for any occult organizations willing to investigate.

As difficult to admit as it was, Beowulf was correct about one thing. The slaughter left a trail that pointed to an untouched brood— save for Orlok, of course. The Coalition, the Foundation, any of those who kept their fingers to the pulse of the Vampire world would eventually string together connective tissue in these murders and disappearances. Their own agendas would lead to undesirable outcomes for Beowulf, of course, but also for himself and possibly the rest of his brood. Something had to be done to allow the Count to continue living the peaceful, comfortable life he had created, and it was something he had to do himself.

He gathered Orlok’s remains and began to think.

By the time Munteanu had returned to the ballroom, Wolfe had settled back into his role of drunken entertainer, guzzling another glass of wine in seconds as the crowd howled. His gaze caught Vincent’s, and he smiled, raising a glass. Vincent returned the gesture. Despite his nigh-limitless ceiling for intoxication, Wolfe was drunk. And ridiculously so. All Vincent had to do was keep the party going, and wait for an opening.

The speech was long, and rehashed the points of the debate at the primaries. Munteanu pepperred in anecdotes and stories, harmless jokes without the slightest chance to offend, and ego-stroking callouts for the backers he still wished to financially secure. Vincent kept watch of the crowd, namely Mr. Wolfe, who stirred and rolled in his seat while continuing to pour from a seemingly bottomless decanter.

It was only when Wolfe had nearly fallen to the floor on his fourteenth attempt to refill the glass that Munteanu decided to end his oratory effort. He thanked them, bid goodnight, and declared himself as the future Mayor of Los Angeles in one month’s time to a raucous display of cheers. Even the worst speech could be made golden with an open bar, he thought.

Vincent left the makeshift podium and stage setup and turned to Carmilla, who was seated behind him.

“Rousing,” she said dryly. “Another half hour of drinks and you’ll be able to show your fangs to a standing ovation.”

“I need a favor,” he said. “Wolfe is… beyond himself. He’s going to make a fool of me sooner or later tonight.”

“I’m afraid he already has,” Carmilla said. Vincent felt his heart jump for a moment. He had kept her in the dark about the man’s true identity.

“I’ve had to pull him away from three wives already,” she continued, much to Vincent’s relief. “Disgusting, human pig. And yet you continue to patronize him.”

“I’m not having this discussion again, Carm, but I will admit— I am starting to see your logic.”

“Blood unfit, even for us. Give him to the nephews. Nicolas was eyeing him up like a dog earlier.”

“No, no. We must not. But I need you to watch him. See to it that he gets home safely. You know where his estate is, yes?”

“You want me to give him a ride home?”

Vincent hesitated, but it was the only way.

“I do. There won’t be any trouble, my dear.”

Carmilla hissed in anticipation. “I should hope there is, I’m looking for it.” A verbal push too far or a misplaced hand and the blood would be spilled, she promised.

“Behave yourself. He is still useful. Now, see to it” Vincent said, preparing to leave. He exited the steps, ready to rejoin the party as a host.

Carmilla watched as Wolfe scarfed down shrimp by the handful, chewing as he told another undoubtedly exaggerated story to the audience he had curated. She moved in for the kill.

The former Count lamented his decision. Carmilla was not safe with him. For all of her strength, he still was certain that the ancient hunter could kill her bare-handed, just as he could any of the vampires in attendance. A hundred years ago, things may have been different, but complacency had taken its toll on Dracula’s body. Carmilla was yet another necessary sacrifice, but certainly the last one, and unlike the dozens of others that Dracula had sold out, she would at least be alive. As long as things went as planned, of course.

Munteanu prepared as he watched Carmilla unwittingly throw herself into the gambit he was constructing. She stood by his side for the duration of the night, while her husband carefully watched for any indication that things may go awry. By the time Wolfe was stumbling, and actively relying on Carmilla for physical support, he knew that the chance to rid himself of the broodslaying filth had finally come.

Carmilla escorted Wolfe to his car, and Dracula followed. Not on foot, but by wing. Perched atop the manor, he watched in disgust as the giant shuffled off to the bushes to relieve himself while waiting for the valet. When the car was retrieved, Carmilla took the keys and settled herself into the front seat of the hunter’s Eldorado. She waved Mr. Wolfe along, who practically fell into the passenger’s seat, the door still wide open. As they drove off, Dracula followed.

He flew along the Los Angeles skyline in the form of a bat, trailing just above the car as it navigated onto the highway and through the city. The sight of the electric melded with the concrete still amazed him, even after three decades of living in the States. The once-Count had seen the world evolve with his own eyes, from brutality to a feigned civility. There was little place in the world for monsters, and much less for those who hunted them. Knowing that the violence of the old world still ran through his blood invigorated him, and Dracula decided that should this be his last flight, it would be fitting to take another decaying relic with him. Even if it would kill him too, Beowulf would die tonight.

Dracula concentrated on the memory of Orlok’s head landing atop his desk— a sickening trophy for a man as monstrous as those he hunted. There was no doubt that Orlok, given his reputation as a creature of deviance, likely deserved that fate, but Vincent would not give Beowulf the satisfaction of a just kill. If he allowed him to move across the familial boundary they had set in their agreement, there was no telling who the man would kill next. Yes, he had become dangerous. Certainly, he always was, but never so brazen as to openly challenge the terms of their treaty so directly. Perhaps the hunter had become tired of writing within the margins, and perhaps Dracula was just rising to the occasion. One ancient against another in a world that had long since moved beyond the need for counts and kings. Only Beowulf made a fatal mistake— he had let Dracula make the first move.

The Wolfe Estate was a lonely place, Dracula had always thought. No family to speak of, nor staff to maintain it left the large, three-story complex very dark and very empty. The hunter barely spent time there, but he couldn’t imagine that it was enjoyable whenever he did. A single security guard maintained the booth at the gate, and to save on expenses, remained the sole staffer. A monument to loneliness, Dracula ascertained. A man who could not adapt or modernize himself, with only the trappings of success to fall back on. Vincent Munteanu was dining with senators and would one day undoubtedly sit in congress himself. Wolfe had to rely on extortion to feed his sickness, his vanity disguised as a holy crusade. This was a mercy killing, Dracula assured himself.

The car pulled into the driveway, having been cleared by security. Dracula flapped his way overhead and watched as Carmilla led him to the door. The vampire scouted the roof for an opening, and managed to squeeze himself through a chimney and into a fireplace below. It was a disused study, dust-ridden and lonely as the rest of the mansion. Dracula waited, peeking into the hallway as he heard his wife leading Beowulf onto the staircase. He took flight once again, and watched as the man wearily pointed towards his bedroom, and lumbered inside. Seemingly satisfied, Carmilla closed the door slightly and began her exit.

Dracula perched himself in the corner of Beowulf’s spartan, nigh-featureless bedroom for what seemed like hours. He transformed himself back to his ordinary, vampiric form for a brief moment, only to wet his fangs with a small vial of poison that he had acquired years ago from a relative. A toxin strong enough to kill the most virile human men, yet negligible to a vampire: The Black Kiss.

When he was certain that sleep had taken its hold, he restored his form to that of a bat, and flapped slowly towards the bed. Upon landing in the space just between the pillow and the warrior’s neck, Dracula angled his fangs towards the carotid. The first sink was luxurious. Beowulf’s blood tasted better than he anticipated, and the Count lamented that he could not afford to drink all of it. Guests would be asking where he was by now, and soon he would have to see his party off to its completion. Poison would prove most efficient, and the least suspicious, given the very public display of drunkenness that Mr. Wolfe had given the partygoers earlier in the night.

Dracula dug his fangs deep— deep enough to sink well into Beowulf’s hardened warrior’s skin and taste the fleshy, pink muscle underneath. He tasted human, as they all did. He pumped the poison into his body, relishing in granting Beowulf an unceremonious and inglorious death. When he had drained his fangs of the dosage entirely, Dracula knew that his victory was secured. The poison would take hold, and Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, King of the Geats, would soon be dead.

Taking extra care to wipe the blood from the bite-marks with a cloth he had brought along, Dracula exited the way he came, and returned to the party as quickly as possible. He slipped into his office, rearranged his appearance, and rejoined just in time to find nearly as many guests populating the ballroom as when he had left. He pointed at a group of councilmen and their wives and smiled. They gestured, and he came.

There were guests to entertain, fence-sitters to convert, and lobbyists to appease. The future he had dreamed for himself, Carmilla, and the rest of the brood was at hand, and Vincent Munteanu had only to reach out and take it. When the news broke, he would find a new campaign manager— a vampiric one at that. He would line his offices with the Dracula name for decades to come. And Beowulf would look up from the lake of fire in unending remorse— knowing that he had failed his greatest hunt. For the first time in over a century, Dracula had won.
-------
Caution tape separated the bedroom from the rest of the mansion. Cameras shuttered, and pencils scribbled. Two dozen LAPD officers, detectives, and forensic scientists crowded around the bed, poking, prodding, and analyzing every detail of the scene.

A group of officers worked their way up the stairwell, huddled around a suited man who hastily shoved a breakfast sandwich down his throat.

“He’s got this whole mansion,” one of them said, “but pinched his pennies so hard he wouldn’t even hire a cleaning lady!”

The man grunted, continuing to chew his breakfast.

“That’s not even the worst part,” another added, “Harris said he opened the library, got attacked by a dust bunny. Almost unloaded into it.”

The man shook his head, still chewing.

An officer rushed forward to knock on the bedroom door, as to not inconvenience the suited man from momentarily parting with his egg sandwich. The group shuffled in, and filled the already-crowded bedroom to its limit.

The suited man placed an unlit cigar in his mouth, and pushed his way to the front to examine the bed. He shook his head, chewing on the tobacco-paper intently. One of the junior officers approached his side.

“Uh, Lieutenant,” the junior said, “We’ve got all the paperwork in the hall. Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

The Lieutenant did not break his gaze, but he did reposition his cigar.

“Lieutenant?”

“Aw, jeez,” said Lieutenant Columbo, “now that’s just horrible.”

[[=image https://gurubox.wdfiles.com/local--files/colubmox/columbo-test.png]]

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> **Source Link:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/murder-bloody-murder SCP Foundation Wiki]
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