by Dacre Stoker
With a note of apology in his voice, Edwards said, “An elderly gentleman came to call earlier this morning, claiming to be your grandfather. He said there was a family emergency and needed to locate you immediately. He left this note for you. I pray I did nothing wrong, but under the circumstances, I thought it best to give the old gentleman your address off the stage manager’s contact list. Did I do wrong?”
Quincey reassured Edwards that everything was well and thanked him for his concern. The truth was, everything was far from well. The only family Quincey had left was his mother. This “grandfather” was an impostor.
Quincey opened the note and found there was no writing on the page. It had all been a ploy to gain his address. The pangs he felt now erupted into a wave of fear.
Night fell.
Quincey found himself standing before the Fleet Street Dragon. How ironic. Quincey had spent the day wandering the streets, afraid to return to the theatre or his flat. Thanks to Edwards, the mysterious stranger knew his home address and could be lying in wait. If the stranger grew tired of waiting, it was quite possible he would return to the theatre. Quincey sensed he should give this old man a wide berth.
He reasoned there could be three possibilities as to the elderly stranger’s identity.
First: Since Mina would get no information as to Quincey’s whereabouts if she came to the theatre herself, the elderly stranger might have been sent by his mother as a surrogate.
Second: He could be working with Scotland Yard. Perhaps the police wanted to question Quincey regarding Stoker’s collapse. Scotland Yard could also be searching for him for one other reason: Something terrible might have happened to Mina. Quincey knew deep down that he still loved his mother, but he could not trust her. His instinct told him to send a telegram to ascertain whether his mother was alive and well, then rush home to his flat and wait for a reply.
It was only fear of the third possibility of the stranger’s identity that kept Quincey’s feet in limbo. Stoker had written in his novel that, when his father first met Dracula at his Transylvanian castle, the demon appeared as an old man. But this was not Stoker’s novel. Quincey could not take that chance. He stared up at the Fleet Street Dragon, lamplight flickering eerily on its face.
He was tremendously tired. He could not think logically. He couldn’t stay on the street all night. Basarab was at his hotel. He was the wisest man Quincey knew. He was his friend. Surely, he would help him. Yet Quincey could not risk exposing Basarab to the danger that hunted him. He gazed up at the window of his father’s dark office. There was nothing for him there any longer. There was only one safe harbor he could think of.
Quincey turned on his heels and decided to head to Mooney & Son’s, his father’s favorite drinking hole. There, he would blend into the crowd. Become anonymous. Whether the elderly stranger was a policeman or his mother’s surrogate, he would not think to look for him there. If Quincey’s worst fear was realized, and the elderly stranger was indeed Dracula, he would be safe in public. The one thing Quincey knew for certain, Dracula needed to keep to the shadows. He could not risk exposing himself.
Fog rolled in. Two more blocks and he would find warmth, respite, and a hot meal. Approaching the Fleet Street alleyway, he was stung by the thought that if something so small as a false note from a stranger could send him into a fearful panic, how could he ever hope to defeat a demon like Dracula?
A hand reached from the fog, grabbed Quincey’s coat, and propelled him into the alley’s darkness.
The demon has found me. Quincey knew death had not come quickly for his father. Dracula would not be kinder with him. His death would be torturous. He prayed for strength.
Quincey watched as a man emerged from the swirling fog. He carried a cane. Before Quincey could react, there was a glinting flash of steel, a whisk through the air. He opened his mouth to scream for help but was quickly silenced by the razor point of a rapier at his neck.
“Do you know who I am?” asked an accented voice from the darkness.
The man with the blade leaned forward into the light. Quincey was both relieved and frightened at the same time. The man was gaunt and frail. Wavy white hair flopped against his face. His clothes were well tailored, yet hung on his skeletal frame like sacks. Quincey’s attacker was an old, sick man. He should have felt secure with the knowledge that he could overpower the old man with the blade, but there was something in his eyes, a determined strength. Perhaps even a touch of madness. This old man was not Dracula, but he could be just as deadly.
“You must be Van Helsing.”
“If you know my name, then you know what I’m capable of,” Van Helsing said. “Stop looking into your father’s death.”
After the cold reception from Arthur Holmwood, Quincey should not have been surprised to find another member of the band of heroes trying to dissuade him from his path of revenge. Yet he did not expect to see the old professor out roaming the night streets, let alone in London. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Van Helsing might be the mysterious stranger. Surely he was being ruled by fear. Van Helsing must have grown tired of waiting for Quincey at his lodgings and set out to search for him. Quincey pushed the rapier away from his neck. “My mother sent you.”
Van Helsing whipped the sword point back onto Quincey’s neck, forcing him against the brick wall. The look of desperate rage on his face made Quincey understand this was not a man who had time to waste with petty arguments. To make his point clear, Van Helsing twisted the blade, scoring the flesh. Warm blood trickled down Quincey’s neck. The old man was not as weak as he appeared.
“There are no answers for you,” he said, “only darkness.”
“What secrets are you all so desperate to hide from me?” Quincey asked, hoping the old man wouldn’t hear the tremble in his voice.
A look of madness came to Van Helsing’s eyes. Quincey held his breath, not sure if he was going to leave this alley alive. But the old man’s face softened. His eyes remained stern, but now he looked more like a loving grandparent than an assassin.
“Most of us walk through life sure in our faith,” Van Helsing said in earnest, an old professor giving one last lecture to a student in whom he saw no potential. “Others who are not so lucky face a moment when that faith is tested. That is the moment when one must choose between the light and the dark. Not all have the strength or wisdom to make the right choice.”
Van Helsing pulled back the blade and sheathed it in his cane. “Go back to the Sorbonne,” he pleaded. “For your mother’s sake, live on in oblivious bliss and remain a child of God.”
Then, his point made and the lesson over, the old man stepped back into the shadowy fog and hobbled away on his cane without looking back.
Quincey was outraged. His mother had obviously sent Van Helsing to tell her son he was weak and in need of protection. But he would show her. He would show them all.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Dracula was dead. Mina knew that now. Through Bathory’s eyes, she had witnessed his final demise. She wanted to grieve for both of them, Dracula and Jonathan, but there was no time for that. She was being hunted. If she survived, there would be many lonely days and nights ahead to weep for all those she had lost. If she did not survive, it would not matter. She had so little to live for now, with her husband in the grave, and her son full of rage about things he did not understand. She needed to arm herself not only with weapons but with something even more powerful: knowledge. Even if she did not survive, she wanted her son to know of all the evil in the world.
Mina decided that she had to find out everything she could about Countess Elizabeth Bathory. Professor Van Helsing always used to say, “In order to battle your enemy, you must first learn everything about them.” Bathory was Mina’s new enemy.
Mina and Bathory had exchanged blood, and now her mind was connected to Bathory’s, just as it had been to Dracula’s, twenty-five years ago, which meant that Bathory would be privy to Mina’s thoughts, desires, and secrets. But it a
lso meant that Mina was given a glimpse into what Bathory was thinking, and her head was throbbing as centuries of memories came to her. At the local bookshop, Mina searched through the piles of information, compiling an account of the countess’s storied life. She had been prepared to behold a horror story, but what she found was surprising, and sadly compelling. Like many of the evildoers in this world, Bathory had not been born a monster, but had become one. As constraining as the bonds of her own time were, the oppression of women in the sixteenth century was ten times worse: Bathory had been compelled into an arranged marriage to someone twice her age. Mina’s eyes drifted to the name, Ferenc Nádasdy, and was suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of deep hatred. Her mind was assaulted by images of physical abuse and violation, and a horrible stench. She slammed the book shut as if it would help shut out the images.
And yet, like small pinpricks of light in the darkness, a set of impressions began to form in Mina’s mind. The amount of blood she and Bathory had exchanged could not have been more than a thimbleful, giving Mina access to only scattered images, but it was enough to help her piece together a painful tale. Mina was not surprised to learn that Bathory was fluent in Hungarian, Latin, and German, an uncommon accomplishment. Mina, always one for meticulous notes, wrote and then circled highly educated. This alone made Bathory a dangerous foe. She then found references to Bathory’s expert equestrian and sword skills, which were equally alarming.
One passage that Mina found gave her pause for thought. She read that while her husband was at war, Bathory had been left at home with her aunt, Countess Karla. Mina “saw” the face of Aunt Karla in her mind . . . along with another image, a young blond maid . . . hanging dead by her neck. What did that mean? Who was this girl? Why had she been executed? She tried to focus on the memories, but the images faded like steam upon a mirror. She read that Bathory’s relationship with her aunt Karla had ended abruptly when Bathory’s family sent an armed guard to retrieve the countess.
According to historians, Bathory had children shortly after her return. They were cared for by governesses as was then the custom, but Bathory was a devoted mother. Mina found this difficult to imagine, but then she read that Bathory’s daughter, Ursula, and her son, Andráshad, both died of disease at an early age.
Feelings of rage and sorrow overcame her. She could see the terrible sneer of Ferenc screaming as he first struck Bathory with his fist and then kicked her while she lay helpless on the ground. “I have no heir. God is punishing me for your sins!”
Mina could feel Bathory’s mind unhinge and her heart turn cold. Though Bathory’s jaw was broken, she spat out her own blood and spoke under her breath, not to her husband, but to God. “You have taken from me everything that I ever loved. Now I will make your most hated enemies my friends. Now I will take from you what you hold most dear. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me.’ Isn’t that what you said?” Mina could understand a mother’s anguish at the loss of her children. But she herself had never felt as much rage as Bathory at that moment. Bathory’s rage against God and man was a fiery wrath that would consume her.
It is no wonder, given this turn of events, that Bathory’s rage had turned toward her nearest bane. In January 1604, Ferenc Nádasdy had received a deep wound, supposedly inflicted by a whore whom he refused to pay. A brief image of Ferenc sleeping in his bedchamber pierced Mina’s mind. She could see Bathory’s delicate hands pulling back the cloth bandages from her husband’s torso. Again, a horrible stench came to Mina. Using a silver spoon, a delicate hand carefully sprinkled rancid manure into Ferenc’s wound as her other hand gingerly replaced the bandage.
He had apparently died some days later, in excruciating pain. Cause of death: an infected wound. Mina found herself disgusted. What a cruel and calculating way to kill another human being, even someone as vile as Ferenc.
Once freed from the constraints of her marriage, and believing she was above the laws of God and his bible, it appeared that Bathory had begun to embrace her true nature. She openly flaunted her tendencies by engaging in relations with local women. Where they had once embraced and welcomed her leadership, the villagers feared that Bathory’s ungodly behavior would bring a curse down upon them and their lands, and began to shun her. Seeking aid from higher authorities, they asked that Bathory be removed and imprisoned. Instead, a plea was sent to Bathory’s family to intervene. Bathory’s family sent priests. She spurned them all. Her family, fearing their name would be ruined, imprisoned her in their castle, where she remained for four years. Mina now had an image of a “dark stranger” coming to Bathory while her family held her captive, but could not discern why the dark stranger had come, whether to rescue her or to save her soul. Mina strained her mind to find a face for the dark stranger, but could find only an empty void. Mina closed her eyes, and for an instant, the image of Dracula slipped into her mind. Was it Bathory’s memory or her own experience coming back to her? Mina could not be certain.
She continued to read. The historical texts held no information about the next three years in Bathory’s life. It was as if she had disappeared off the face of the earth. Then, when Bathory was nearing her fortieth year, she had miraculously returned to her castle in Hungary, by all accounts a changed woman.
Almost immediately, a series of violent murders befell both the Bathory and Nádasdy families, and young peasant girls from the villages disappeared. Fear fell like a shadow over the countryside, and Elizabeth Bathory was named the cause. The images now flashing in Mina’s mind became obscene. What she saw now were debauched images of orgies, perverse practices, even heretical pagan rituals and elements of Devil worship. Bathory had completely broken with God—and Mina was seeing the result.
In fearful whispers, townsfolk said that the dark stranger who had taken Bathory away was a warlock who had instructed her in the dark arts. Bathory’s male servants fled the castle. The tales of evil and debauchery they told were unprecedented. Bathory now appointed only women to attend her. The number of murders mounted, and more blood was spilled. Bathory had become a butcher who had sworn war against all Christians.
The authorities raided Bathory’s castle, arresting her in the midst of an orgy with three young women—her servants—bathing in and drinking another young woman’s blood. Mina knew then that Bathory had been made a vampire.
In Bathory’s castle dungeon, the authorities discovered the most heinous torture devices ever conceived. Numerous peasant girls were found naked, horribly wounded, raped, and in some cases lifeless. Upon digging up the ground around her castle, dozens more skeletons were found.
For their crimes, Bathory’s female servants were put to death, their bodies burned, their ashes scattered. Bathory was tried and convicted. Only her family’s influence kept her from being burnt at the stake. A compromise was made: life in prison.
Bathory’s family wept for her. She had been born into privilege, blessed by God, considered to be the most beautiful woman of her age, yet she had cast it all away and would pay for her crimes with an eternity in hell.
Once again, Bathory’s disjointed memories invaded Mina’s mind. She now sensed the presence of another man who had come to Bathory’s aid. This stranger instigated a plan for her escape. Bathory had been walled up in her bedchamber, with only an open hole in the brick wall close to the floor through which she received her meals. It was through this hole that a letter by this stranger was passed to her. As Mina concentrated her thoughts, she saw that the text had been written in Hungarian. With Bathory’s blood coursing through her veins, Mina was able to read the words.
The letter told Bathory that her blood had been transmuted. If a human body was invaded by vampire blood, the body resisted the venom. But, when the human body died and could no longer fight, the vampire venom took over, transforming the body into something new and greater. Vampire blood swam through the veins and arteries, making the once-dead human into the un-dead. The once-human heart began to pump vampire venom, and the body was reborn to a second l
ife of immense power. Only piercing the heart could destroy the wellspring of venom and kill the vampire. In conclusion, the letter pointed out to Bathory that a vampire’s heart beat so slowly that its rhythm was imperceptible to mortals.
At last, Mina understood what was happening to her own body. While Dracula’s vampire blood resided within her, her living body kept the venom from taking complete control. Yet the venom had in one way already taken effect: It had given Mina eternal youth. Now both worried and curious, Mina wondered what other effects Dracula’s blood, and now Bathory’s, would have on her body. At least there was comfort in the thought that, as long as she lived and her human heart continued to beat, she would never be a true vampire.
She continued to read. After Bathory had not eaten for several days, a physician had been summoned to her prison. Prostrating himself on the floor, he looked through the hole in the brick wall and saw Bathory lying motionless. The wall was hammered down. Bathory was found to have no discernible heartbeat or breath. To all appearances, Bathory was dead. She was quickly carted off under the cover of darkness to avoid prying eyes, sealed in a coffin, buried, and forgotten.
But Mina could sense Bathory clawing at her coffin, digging through earth, ripping herself from her own grave. Once she was released, centuries of horrific evil had been unleashed upon the world. Mina had faced evil before, but Bathory was not like Dracula. Dracula had always had a purpose, a reason. This demon killed for sport. She lacked the slightest touch of human compassion. Mina was more afraid than she had ever been.
