by Dacre Stoker
“It was through Basarab’s correspondence with Dr. Seward that we were led to Dracula and Countess Bathory.”
“Basarab,” Van Helsing repeated, slowly and deliberately, tasting each letter. He turned his back on Quincey again. “Holmwood, did you learn nothing from our adventures together?”
Confusion fell across Holmwood’s face. “What are you getting at?”
“Tell me, have you ever met this Basarab face-to-face?” Van Helsing asked.
“No. Only Quincey has. Why?”
“Ingenious.” Van Helsing chuckled.
Growing impatient, Quincey wanted to grab the old man and shake the answers out of him. He faced Van Helsing. “Professor, if you know something, tell us. Do not keep us in the dark.”
Van Helsing looked at Quincey for a long moment. Then he sighed. “The dark, gentlemen, is all there is,” he said. “You have already lost. His way is the only path left for us.”
“Whose way?” Quincey asked.
As if he were in a lecture hall, Van Helsing took one of his wrinkled hands from the cane and, placing it on the lapel of his jacket, held his audience captive. The darkness in his eyes fell directly on Quincey. “Dracula is only the title he chose when he became prince. But Dracula’s true name is . . . Vladimir Basarab.”
CHAPTER XLVI.
“Do you hear that?” Price asked from his perch on top of the speeding police carriage as his eyes scanned the skies.
Constable Marrow, riding shotgun, wasn’t listening. His eyes were focused on the glowing red fog that was gathering in the street ahead of them. “What the devil is that?”
“Look!” Price pointed upward as the low-hanging black clouds in the sky began to churn and converge.
Marrow cocked his rifle. “Something’s not right. Have you ever seen red fog?”
Price’s growing fear was evident in his quivering voice. “I don’t think that is fog. Whatever it is, it’s behind us as well.”
Marrow turned to see the misty red mass gaining on them from behind, picking up speed. “It’s as if it’s chasing us.”
“I think it’s trying to cut us off. It’s almost . . .” Price never had the chance to finish his thought. The police carriage’s horses came to a sudden, jolting stop, and Price and Marrow had to hold tight to their seat handles to avoid being thrown.
The police surgeon’s carriage, ahead of them, also stopped abruptly. Its team of horses began neighing and chomping at their bits as if they could sense danger.
Marrow turned. “It’s gaining on us!”
Price slapped the horses with the reins. “Move, you beasts!” But the horses balked, refusing to go any farther.
The bloodred fog now formed a wall in front of the surgeon’s carriage. The driver snapped the reins again and again, and at last the horses began to pick up their feet and move ahead.
Marrow grabbed Price’s arm. “I think we need to get off this street.”
They watched as the police surgeon’s carriage broached the barrier of red fog. Price realized he was holding his breath. How foolish he must have looked. It was only fog. Or was it?
Marrow said again more forcefully, “I’m telling you. We need to get out of here!”
Price was not about to disobey orders. “Get a bloody grip on yourself, man. I would remind you, Constable Marrow, that we have our instructions.”
With what sounded like the roar of a wild beast from the pits of hell, the police surgeon’s carriage suddenly erupted from the red fog, flying through the air, accompanied by severed horses’ heads, limbs, and entrails. The carriage itself then imploded in midair, the wreckage crashing to the ground and skidding along the cobbles, igniting sparks and sending a terrible screeching sound into the night.
“Move!” screamed Marrow in panic.
This time, neither Price nor the horses drawing their carriage had to be told twice: Somehow avoiding the wall of red fog, they raced at a gallop into the nearest side street.
Price no longer cared where they were going so long as it was away from there.
Inside the swift-moving police carriage, Cotford and his prisoner were thrown to one side on a sharp turn, and then bounced up and down so violently that Mina hit her head, drawing blood.
“What the hell is going on up there?” cursed Cotford as he pulled himself back onto his seat and peered out of the window. As Mina dabbed at the cut on her brow, she wished there was another window in the carriage; she had no idea what was happening outside, but something told her to be on her guard. Mina was certain she could use her newfound strength to escape any time she wanted. Yet her arrest served as a distraction for Cotford and would hopefully give Quincey and Arthur more time to get away. As she held on to her seat, she wondered if they had found Van Helsing yet.
Her heart sank at the thought of the old professor. She was thankful that he had survived, but was troubled by his telegram. Dracula was still alive? How was that possible? She had seen, through Bathory’s eyes, his death in the castle. Was the telegram some sort of ruse by Bathory? Surely not. She refused to believe that Dracula would align himself with the likes of that evil woman. Yet, if Dracula was somehow alive and had learned of Mina’s secret, who knew what he might do?
The thought of Quincey and Arthur walking into Bathory’s hands now filled her with resolve. She had to escape from Cotford’s clutches. She had to rescue them. The carriage lurched violently again and Cotford was thrown against one wall. Mina, thrown against the other, found that she was able to steal a glance out of the carriage window. The instant she saw the red fog, she knew exactly why the carriage was moving so erratically. Her mind whirled in terror. Was the red fog manipulated by Bathory? Or by Dracula? Or by both?
“What the blazes is going on?” Cotford screamed. He reached for the door, and then stopped. His eyes met Mina’s. Suddenly, his hand moved for the broken katana that he had wrapped in his handkerchief and stuffed into his coat pocket.
Mina almost laughed at the absurdity of this gesture. Right now, she was the last thing Cotford should be worried about.
Suddenly, there was a scream from above them. Cotford lunged to the window, and Mina, peering over his shoulder, saw one of the police constables fall from the carriage, his rifle flying from his hand. Cotford yelled at the top of his lungs, “Price, what the hell are you doing? I order you to stop this carriage now!”
There was no response. Cotford pulled out his key and reached for the door lock. Mina actually felt sorry for him. He had no idea what he was dealing with. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm. “If you value your life, don’t open that door!”
“As if I would trust anything you say, Mrs. Harker.”
Mina knew there was nothing she could say that would convince him of the evil that lurked in the darkness. She released his arm, allowing him the freedom to seal his own fate. Mina had her own decisions to make, and her son’s life hung in the balance.
Marrow heard the sound of flapping wings, but before he could see where the odd noise was coming from, he felt a sharp sting on the side of his head and then he was sent soaring through the air. When he hit the muddied ground, he felt his left shoulder dislocate from the impact. There was a bone-crushing crunch and he thought for a moment that the wheels of the carriage had driven over his legs. He was relieved when he realized that carriage had run over his already-smashed rifle. Somehow he struggled to his feet. He was alive! The left side of his head felt cold and damp, searing with pain. He raised his hand to the side of his face and felt a large, hairy flap of his scalp quivering in the breeze. Hot, warm blood poured down his cheek. He was touching his skull.
Marrow stumbled forward queasily. He was in the Temple Gardens, just north of the Thames. He saw the carriage race away with the bloodred fog still in pursuit. He was in terrible pain, and his left arm was useless. Considering the fate of the police surgeon and his horses, though, he was fortunate to have survived. He feared that Price, Cotford, and their prisoner would not be so lucky.
&nbs
p; Marrow’s respite was shortlived, for a moment later, the red fog headed straight for him and he heard the sound of flapping wings once again. He didn’t waste time trying to work out where the sound was coming from. He still had the revolver he had been issued. He drew it and was about to take aim when he felt a sudden gush of wind in his face and a strong tug on his arm. He tried to cock the gun, but his hand wouldn’t move. Looking down, he saw a severed hand holding a revolver on the grass in front of him. Confused, Marrow raised his right arm and saw a gushing stump where his hand had once been. He screamed as the horrible pain belatedly registered in his brain.
The flapping wings echoed above him again. In a flash, he thought he saw the sharp talons of a large bird. Then he was shoved backward and heard what sounded like a bucket of water being splashed onto the ground. Feeling cold and unsteady, he looked down. He had been gutted from his chest to his privates, and his innards were spilling out of his body. Marrow felt ill, and a strong urge to vomit. But as he tumbled back, he realized he no longer had the stomach for it.
“Sit down and don’t move!” barked Cotford at Mina as he unlocked and flung open the door of the still-moving carriage. He was going out there to get to the bottom of this nonsense. He stepped out of the carriage onto the footrail and grabbed hold of the roof. The wind whipped at him so violently, he thought he would be blown off the side of the carriage. He could see Price, in the driver’s seat above him, whipping the horses relentlessly with the reins. “Price! What the hell is wrong with you? Stop this carriage! That’s an order!”
If Price heard him, he gave no indication of it. Cotford edged his feet along the footrail, his fingers gripping so tightly to the handrail that his knuckles turned white. As the carriage lurched to the right, his grip slipped, leaving his feet dangling in thin air as the carriage continued to race faster and faster. As a young cadet, Cotford had been able to do one hundred pull-ups: Now he just needed to do one—the one that would save his life. He did not have the strength.
Cotford raised his foot, placed it against the side of the carriage, and pushed with all his might and somehow managed to hoist his other leg onto the bottom stair and pull himself up. Holding fast to the stair rail, he fought the wind and climbed into the driver’s seat. From this vantage point, Cotford could see the low black clouds churning violently overhead. Never in his life had he seen such a storm.
Constable Price turned to look at him. His face was splashed with blood and there was a wild look in his eyes. “It keeps coming. We can’t get away from it.”
It was clear to Cotford that Price had taken leave of his senses. He reached out to grab the reins, but the terrified young man would not let them go. Struggling to pry them loose, Cotford caught sight of something that stopped him cold. A glowing, bloodred fog spread out from under the carriage. Cotford had seen fog like that only one other time in his life, and had never spoken of it to anyone. Price gave a bloodcurdling scream, and Cotford turned to see him yanked from his seat, wrapped in a blanket of red fog. He watched in disbelief as Price flew straight up into the air, disappearing into the spiraling storm clouds.
The memory of Van Helsing’s rant about pagan evil echoed in Cotford’s ears. There was surely something ungodly going on. But there was no time to dwell on what that evil might be: The horses were racing out of control and Cotford had to take the reins.
Constable Price tried to scream, but the red fog entered his mouth, filling it with the horrid taste of rot. He felt as if his body was being crushed like a walnut. He couldn’t breathe. The sound of flapping wings was all he could hear. He thrashed in panic. His flight into the sky seemed to last an eternity as he rose higher and higher. He thought his heart would rupture from fear, but still he continued to struggle.
Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his neck—and then he was calm. He felt tired. He wanted to sleep. He understood what was happening to him but had neither the strength nor the will to prevent it. The blood was leaving his body, and he felt wafer-thin, like a feather floating on the air. The mist then simply released him. His horror was brief. The merciless London streets rose up to meet him, and Price felt his bones shatter as he hit the cobbles . . . and then there was blackness.
CHAPTER XLVII.
Disbelieving, Arthur Holmwood spun to look at Quincey Harker. The look of shock on the boy’s face confirmed he had heard the same chilling words from Van Helsing.
“Basarab? No, it cannot be.” Quincey shook his head in disbelief.
“Fools!” the professor said, mocking them. “Accept the truth as Seward did. As I have. Dracula is not our enemy.”
Holmwood stepped back as if Van Helsing’s words were physical blows. As Seward did? If Seward had truly joined forces with Lucy’s killer, then he had betrayed them all. They had nearly been killed while battling to kill Dracula in Transylvania. With his last breath, Quincey P. Morris had plunged the knife into Dracula’s chest. Had their sacrifices been for naught? Lies. Lies! It had to be all lies! “Quincey Morris did not die in vain!” he shouted.
“Bathory is the true evil,” Van Helsing replied earnestly. “After learning of her horrible killings, the Ripper murders, Dracula came to England in 1888 for one purpose—to destroy Bathory. He did not flee back to his castle in fear of us. It was Bathory who fled in fear of Dracula. We interfered in Dracula’s pursuit of her, as Bathory knew we would. She tricked us all. The wounds we inflicted on Dracula weakened him and made it possible for Bathory to deliver what she thought was the final blow. Quincey Morris died fighting the wrong villain.”
“Dracula murdered my Lucy. He is a demon, and he must die!”
“Rage has clouded your judgment.” Van Helsing turned his back on Holmwood, as if disgusted with his former apprentice.
Holmwood grabbed the old professor roughly by the arm. “I will never ally myself with Dracula! If Bathory was the Ripper, so be it, we’ll kill them both.”
“You are weak-minded and impulsive. You should never have brought the boy here.” Van Helsing struggled to pull away from Holmwood’s grasp.
Disgusted by the old man’s venomous words, Holmwood released him with a shove. Van Helsing stumbled and fell to the floor, facedown.
“Professor!” Quincey exclaimed. He dashed to Van Helsing’s aid, shaking the old man. No response. “Professor Van Helsing?” He clutched the old man’s wrist, then looked up at Arthur with panic in his face. “I can’t find a pulse!”
“Dear God!” Holmwood knelt at Van Helsing’s side to verify the horrible truth for himself. His searching fingers could find no heartbeat.
“Help me turn him over,” Quincey said.
A moan escaped Van Helsing’s lips. Startled, Quincey nearly lost his balance. A slight rocking movement from the old man then caused Holmwood to stand and step back in shock. He was quite sure there had been no pulse. Van Helsing had been dead.
The professor pushed himself up with his rickety arms. His long, disheveled white hair hung forward, casting a shadow on his face. “If you will not join us . . . ,” he said in a voice that chilled their blood. The old man was apparently not as frail as he had led them to believe.
Van Helsing spun around, his white hair whipping back—revealing the horrible truth. The professor’s eyes were black orbs, and his fangs were long and sharp. He snarled venomously, “. . . then you are against us!”
It was too late to flee. Van Helsing leapt at them.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
“You can’t outrun it. This is a fool’s errand!” Mina screamed from below.
Cotford knew she was right. The bloodred fog had fallen behind after Price was taken, but now it was on the move again, nipping at the carriage’s racing rear wheels. The horses were bathed in sweat: They could not keep up this frantic pace much longer. Cotford needed a plan.
He yanked the reins to change direction, heading back to the main street in the hope of finding a crowd. Let’s see how this red menace reacts when exposed to witnesses.
Suddenly, he heard th
at strange sound of flapping wings. For an instant, he saw what appeared to be the great claws of some giant beast reach down from above and he tried to dodge a razor-tipped talon, but he wasn’t quick enough. He winced in pain as something sharp tore into his flesh.
Cotford cupped his hand over the wound just beneath his shoulder. It was deep, and the pain was horrible. His blood was pouring out. He drove the team of horses as fast as he could through the maze of back alleys, somehow managing to outmaneuver the crimson fog.
Emerging at last from the side streets, Cotford saw his refuge, like a finish line for a runner: the bold black letters PICCADILLY RLY tiled in brick on the front of a building. Using every ounce of his quickly diminishing strength, he drew the horses to a halt right in the middle of the island on the Aldwych crescent. The few carriages and motorcars still out on the street screeched to a halt as the police carriage blocked their advance. Pedestrians stopped and stared. Cotford leapt from the driver’s seat to the ground. He turned back to see that the bloodred fog had not followed them onto the main street. He ran to the side of the carriage and reached out his bloody hand into the opened door. “Get out!”
Mina hesitated for a moment, and then took Cotford’s hand as he pulled her from the carriage. She stared at his torn shoulder. Reaching out to touch his wound, Mina knew that she could not staunch the flow of blood. With her hands now covered, she looked up at Cotford. There was nothing she could do. “You need a surgeon.”
Cotford’s attention was not on himself but on the skies above. The black clouds were gathering, blocking out the moonlight and stars. “Come on!” He grabbed Mina’s hand and ran with her to the entrance leading down to the Strand tube station. Both of them stopped as they heard the sound of flapping wings circle above them, hidden within the whirlpool of black clouds. “Underground is your only hope!” Cotford screamed over the growing roar of wind as he pulled out a handful of coins from his pocket and shoved them into Mina’s hand. “Tell Van Helsing I was wrong . . . about everything.”
