by Dacre Stoker
Mina tightened the driver’s tourniquet. She was desperate to follow Holmwood, but could not leave this man alone in his injured state. She saw people watching from the windows of a nearby building. “Will someone please come and help?” she screamed. “This man is badly injured! I need a doctor!”
The people in the building turned away and closed their shutters; they could gawk at the disaster but did not want to get involved. She looked back at the driver. She had no choice; her fears for her son’s life overrode everything. She left the dying man and limped after Arthur Holmwood.
As she passed the other black and gold carriage, the door suddenly sprang open. All she saw was the flash of dark hair, pale skin, black eyes, and long, white, razor-sharp fangs. Her mind had barely enough time to process that it was a woman who leapt at her . . . and that woman was a vampire.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Arthur Holmwood shoved his way through the crowd, forcing hapless pedestrians aside. His six-foot-four frame allowed him to see over the crowd, though he had to blink back the smoke. The more he pushed forward, the stronger the current of people pushed back. It was like trying to move through quicksand.
Then at last the crowd parted to make way for three horse-drawn fire brigade steam pumpers. Knowing the cavalry led the charge for the infantry, Arthur positioned himself behind the brigade. Overtaking the pumps, he pushed past the line of people passing buckets of water toward the burning Lyceum Theatre and moments later found himself immersed in the crowd that had formed at the base of the steps, looking dazed, as if hypnotized by the dancing orange flames.
“Move! Out of my way!” he shouted.
He was aided by two firemen carrying hoses, who were trying to force their way though the crowd to the front entrance. The flames and heat were so intense that it was unlikely anyone was still alive inside. Through the broken windows of the theatre, he could see walls collapsing. None of the firemen were going inside: It was simply too dangerous. Then he noticed two of them dowsing the buildings on either side of the theatre with water. This was no longer a rescue, but a holding action. The Lyceum was lost. Now the strategy was to stop the fire from spreading and consuming the entire street.
Arthur reached the base of the stairs, took a few steps up to get an elevated view, and scanned the throng for Quincey. Hopefully, the boy had never made it inside, and if he had, perhaps he had had the good sense to get out in time.
He saw a small, bespectacled man covered in soot and ash break through the crowd to the firemen.
“Quincey Harker is still inside!” Hamilton Deane screamed. “Please, you have to help him!”
Holmwood’s heart sank as a fireman pushed Deane back. “If he’s in there, he’s already dead,” the man said.
Holmwood felt powerless. For a man of action, there was nothing worse. It was the same feeling he’d experienced as he had watched Lucy die, as he had watched Quincey P. Morris die. Not again. Not this time. Not on his watch. He sprinted up the steps to the blazing theatre, flames snapping at him all the way.
A fireman called out, “Get back here! Are you daft?”
The flames receded for a moment, and Holmwood ran forward. The heat was so intense, he was sure he was melting. As he was about to leap past the threshold, the raging inferno beat him back. It was as if he were standing at the gates of hell.
In total desperation, he cried out, “Quincey!”
Quincey’s lungs burned. Smoke stung his eyes. He shielded his face from the flames as he made his way backstage.
“Basarab, where are you? Basarab? Answer me!”
He kicked a door open. A sudden wave of hot air knocked him flat. The flames escaped the room and shot up to the ceiling, igniting it. There was a loud yawning sound as fire consumed the surrounding oxygen. Quincey was in the belly of the beast, and he only had moments left before he would be eaten alive. Crawling below the level of the smoke, he made it to the next door, pressed his body against the wall, and touched the doorknob. The skin on his fingertips seared. He yanked his hand back with a cry of pain. The door moaned, its wood expanding, cracking, bulging. Quincey covered his face. The door exploded off its hinges, splintering, the flames shooting out like a fireball. It was useless. The building creaked all around him. It was about to collapse. He had to get out of there now or he was going to die.
He scrambled to his feet to make a run for it, but stopped short. Through the smoky haze, he saw a smoldering body trapped under debris. The body was draped in the burning remnants of what had once been a decorative robe. A broadsword was still clenched in its charred hand.
“Basarab!” Ignoring the hellish heat, Quincey ran to the body. The face was burned beyond recognition. If he had just run out the door, at least there would have been hope. Now the answers Quincey sought were forever lost. Basarab was dead.
Who was this countess of whom Deane had spoken? Quincey had found it difficult to cry for his father, but even though Basarab had lied to him, the tears now flowed easily. Quincey was quickly losing his battle against Dracula. Tears mixed with smoke, blinding him.
Moments later, he heard a horrible creak, and faster than he could react, the ceiling gave way. He didn’t even have enough time to raise his arms to shield his face as the heavy wood beams dropped on him. He felt a sharp pain. A beam struck his ribs.
He was trapped.
The dark-haired Woman in White flew out of the black-and-gold carriage, her face wild, her eyes black, fangs glistening. She hit Mina square in the chest and they both toppled back onto the cobbles.
No one on Wellington Street took the least notice: All attention was on the fire at the Lyceum Theatre. Mina was on her own. The Woman in White howled in victory as her clawlike hands pulled Mina’s head back, exposing her vulnerable neck to the creature’s fangs. The vampire now straddled Mina, holding her fast. Mina struggled, but the Woman in White was strong.
“My countess sends her undying love,” the vampire growled as she dipped her fangs toward Mina’s throat.
Mina had known the loving kiss of a vampire once before. This was something quite different. The intent was clearly to rip out her throat. “No!” she shrieked. After all she had endured, she was not going to allow herself to be killed now, when Quincey needed her most.
A new rage surged within Mina. Her newfound strength began to surge through her veins. The beast that had lain dormant in her blood, Dracula’s blood, for so long was suddenly unleashed. Her heartbeat quickened in a way she had never experienced before, and her blood surged through her veins as if it had a mind of its own, empowering her muscles with unnatural strength and speed. Before the Woman in White ripped open her neck, and before she became completely aware of what was happening, Mina threw her attacker off of her body. The dark-haired vampire flew screaming through the air, her graceful arc ending with a slam against an iron lamppost. The Woman in White hit the cobbles with a hideous thud, and the post cracked in half in an explosion of sparks. The upper half of the lamppost fell on top of the vampire, crushing her beneath its weight.
Mina stared in disbelief at her own hands.
She looked up just in time to see the Woman in White lift the metal lamppost as easily as if it were no more than a broken tree limb and fling it at her. Without thinking, Mina leapt aside, dodging the lamppost with surprising ease. She ran for her sword, now lying on the ground beside Holmwood’s overturned carriage. As Mina grasped the handle, unsheathed it, and spun around in one continuous motion, the Woman in White pounced toward her. Mina thrust out with the sword as the vampire drew near. The Woman in White snarled as blood sprang from a a gaping wound on her upper chest.
Blast! I was aiming for her head. Mina swung the katana again: This time, she would not miss. The sword cut the air with a hiss as it angled toward the dark-haired vampire’s neck.
With a hideous snarl like that of a wild animal, the Woman in White raised her hand and caught the blade in her fist. Blood spurted from a gash that cut to the bone. The beast twisted the blood
y blade and snapped it in two. In an instant, the sword hilt was wrenched from Mina’s fingers and she felt her feet leave the earth. The force of the vampire’s strike sent her flying through the air, spinning as she smashed into the carriage’s wheel, splintering it. The iron axle slammed into the small of her back. Mina fell to the ground, gasping, the wind forced from her lungs.
“You fight like a man,” the Woman in White laughed. “I would have thought a prince would choose a more gentle woman to love.”
Mina struggled to regain her breath. “Not all women are slaves to their masters.”
Offended, the Woman in White roared. One second she was still, the next she was a blur. Mina watched in amazement as the vampire bounded with incredible speed toward her. It was time for the kill.
The image of her dark prince now appeared in Mina’s mind; there was panic on his face as he screamed at her, “Move!”
In the second that it took for the Woman in White to reach her, Mina lost control of her body. It was as if Dracula’s blood in her veins was answering the command of its general. Mina watched her own hand grab Holmwood’s broken walking stick and hold it in front of her like a spearman meeting a cavalry charge. The vampire was moving too fast to check her momentum: She impaled herself through the heart on the sharp, broken end of the walking stick. Mina’s face and hands were splashed with ice-cold blood, sending shivers throughout her body. The Woman in White’s victorious roar was transformed into a death wail.
Staring at Mina in profound disbelief, she croaked: “How . . . ?”
“Didn’t your mistress warn you? I’m Dracula’s adulterous whore!” Mina said.
She spun the Woman in White through the air, smashing her into the side of the building. The bricks chipped under the impact, and the vampire slumped to the ground. As her eyes closed forever, her face regained its human form.
Dracula had saved her, but he had also killed her husband. Mina didn’t know how to feel. As she retraced her steps only to find Arthur Holmwood’s driver dead, she wondered if, deep down, she was just as much of a killer as the vampire prince.
The screams and clanging bells on Wellington Street broke into her thoughts. Quincey! Mina unhitched the lead stallion. Etiquette be damned, this was no time for sidesaddle. She hiked up her skirt, flung her leg over the horse’s naked back, and straddled the beast. Taking its mane in one hand and its reins in the other, she kicked its flanks with her heels and galloped toward the Lyceum Theatre, forcing the great stallion through the panicked crowd, her primal instincts in full control. She stopped for no one. The horse reared violently as it neared the flaming theatre. Mina should have been thrown, but again her strength saved her. She fought her way to the building’s steps, but it was futile. The fire had broken through the roof, showering the ground with burning embers, as if the night were alive with a swarm of fireflies.
She saw several firemen restraining a screaming man.
“Arthur!”
Holmwood shoved them away and staggered down the stairs toward her. There were tears in his eyes as he shook his head, his pale expression one of utter defeat. She had seen that look on Arthur’s face only once before. Mina’s heart lurched. “What has happened? Where’s my son? Where’s Quincey?”
Arthur Holmwood had never before backed away from a challenge. But now, as he faced her, he couldn’t even meet her eyes. His voice cracked as he said, “Mina, I’m sorry. Quincey’s gone.”
CHAPTER XL.
It has been said that there is no greater pain for a parent than outliving their own child. Having no heir, Arthur Holmwood thought he’d never have to put that statement to the test. Now he watched helplessly as Mina did just that. Like Lot’s wife, she was frozen in place, unable to turn away from the burning theatre. She was completely still. The light went out of her eyes. He imagined her heart had turned to stone. Whatever anger Arthur had felt toward Mina Harker, he would never have wished this tragedy upon her. He had come to like her son, more than he cared to admit. The young man was reckless, but so had he been when he was that age. He had hoped that fate would spare Quincey from the doom that had come to his father and Jack. The doom that seemed to be awaiting them all.
The fire brigade pushed the now-silent crowd back. The firemen had coiled their hoses, and the water pumps had ceased. There was nothing more to do but wait for the inevitable end.
Holmwood took hold of his stallion’s reins and moved Mina out of harm’s way. He looked at her, and a frightening thought came to him. Would she be so foolish as to throw herself into the fire to be with her son? Walking alongside Mina, he watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge her intent.
Before they had taken more than a dozen steps, Mina pointed at the entranceway and called out, “Quincey!”
He was certain that Mina had crossed the threshold into madness. Then, turning back, he, too, saw the amazing sight. There was Quincey Harker, stumbling out from behind the curtain of flames. There was a loud, horrible wrenching of splintering wood, starting at the roof. Cracks appeared on the outer walls of the theatre. The structure was collapsing in on itself. Mina quickly dismounted from the horse. Holmwood bounded up the theatre steps, reaching the entrance just as Quincey did. The young man was covered in black soot. His coat was on fire and he seemed dazed.
Holmwood took hold of him by the lapels of his coat and yanked him out of harm’s way. “Quincey, run!” He threw Quincey ahead of him down the steps and then leapt to save his own life, just as the rest of the roof of the building gave way. The throngs screamed. A thick cloud of choking black smoke rose from the rubble. Only the theatre’s Grecian façade remained standing.
Mina smothered Quincey’s burning coat, then ripped it open, searching for wounds. “Quincey, are you injured?”
Quincey was clearly shaken to the core by his harrowing escape. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. There was not a single mark on his skin.
Holmwood shook his head in shock. He had seen the aftermath of dozens of battles, the effects of carnage on the bodies of brave young men. But he had never seen anything like this. This was not luck: This was a miracle.
A man carrying a doctor’s satchel ran out of the crowd, soon to be joined by concerned firemen. Mina looked up at Holmwood, panic on her face. Don’t let them see Quincey.
Holmwood charged to intercept them. “Stay back. All of you!” The men held their place. He spun back to Mina and Quincey and shouted, “We have to get away from here!”
Tears filled Quincey’s eyes. “He’s dead. . . . Basarab is dead.”
Holmwood could not allow Quincey a moment of mourning. He heard the gasp from the crowd as he helped Quincey to his feet. Those closest to them saw that Quincey was not injured. He did not want to give them the chance to create a scene. He dragged Quincey away from the theatre’s ruins while Mina went back for the stallion. Although the crowd might be perplexed by Quincey’s amazing escape, Arthur Holmwood knew the reason for it only too well. Mina’s youthful appearance was the result of drinking Dracula’s blood, and that same blood that had passed into Quincey when he was in Mina’s womb now coursed through his veins.
They moved away from the crowd, up the street. For the first time, Holmwood felt a glimmer of hope. Dracula had made his first tactical error. If his blood gave Quincey the power to heal, Quincey might have inherited Dracula’s physical strength as well. Dracula might have provided Arthur with a powerful weapon to use against him.
Cotford cursed under his breath. Since the Waterloo fire station closed two years ago, the Scotland Yard fire hall was overworked. Their engines were constantly belting through the streets, their infuriating bells echoing. As the two police carriages made their way along Whitehall toward the Strand, the driver of Cotford’s carriage kept pulling aside to allow the fire brigade to pass. The fire, wherever it was, must have indeed been a spectacle. It seemed as if all of London had come out to bear witness to it. Between the fire brigade and the pedestrians, the main streets were practical
ly impassable. If Cotford was to keep his date with the Ripper, then he, Lee, and the handful of armed constables that had joined them on their mission somehow had to find a path to the Lyceum Theatre.
Nervous and impatient, Cotford leaned out of the window and looked back at the other police carriage. It, too, was held back by the chaos. Cotford shouted at the pedestrians clogging the street: “Make way! Move!”
Lee took his cue from the inspector and leaned out of the opposite window. “Official police business, make way!”
Cotford cursed as he saw that the Waterloo Bridge was shut down for repair yet again. He yelled to the driver, “Turn right onto King William Street. We’ll go up St. Martin’s away from the crowd and double back!”
Cotford sank back into his seat with an all-too-familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach, the same feeling he’d had when he had tripped on the curb, allowing the Ripper to escape twenty-five years ago. With the crowd and detour, his appointment with the Ripper would be delayed by another twenty minutes. If things went wrong tonight, he knew he might never have another chance to balance the scales.
Jostled by the crowds, Mina fought back tears as she watched Arthur Holmwood press ahead with Quincey. She desperately longed to comfort her son. She’d nearly lost him this night, and yet she couldn’t find a way to express what she was feeling.
“What is she doing here?” Quincey asked Holmwood, still not acknowledging Mina’s presence. “I thought I could trust you!”
That was enough. Mina grabbed hold of her son. “I am still your mother! The only one you’ll ever have and I love you.”
“We don’t have time for family squabbles!” Arthur said firmly. “We have to find Van Helsing! Now!”
Quincey had opened his mouth to protest, but Holmwood pushed him forcefully ahead of him through the crowd. They had already wasted valuable time trying to reach the mouth of Wellington Street, only a stone’s throw from the burning theatre, but the intersection was blocked by fire engines and gawkers. It had been like trying to paddle a boat against the current. They were forced to turn around and cross in front of the burning theatre again. The stallion reared in fear, almost knocking Mina over. Holmwood yanked off his cravat and covered his animal’s eyes with it, holding fast to the bridle. They pressed on northward, with Quincey recounting what he had just learned.
