by Dacre Stoker
“It’s me it wants!” Mina protested, trying to push the coins back at Cotford. “You save yourself!”
“My blindness has put both you and your family and friends in terrible danger. I see that now. Forgive me.”
The sound of the wings above grew louder. The monster was coming.
“Go! Go now!” Cotford shoved Mina to the stairs. He turned back and pulled from his coat pocket the broken katana. From behind him he heard Mina run off and then strangely he heard her whisper in his ear, her voice soft and sweet, “You are forgiven.”
For so many years he had been plagued by the deaths of those young women. He knew now why his soul had been so tormented. He’d been lying to himself all along, blocking out the truth. The killer was not human. The night he fell as he chased the Ripper, he had seen the same bloodred fog. It had surrounded him when he lost his way and tripped on the curb. The monster that came for him now was his destiny. If he could save just one person this night . . . then maybe his life’s work would not have been in vain.
The monster, swooping low out of the clouds, finally revealed itself. The gargoyle roared, exposing gory rows of sharp teeth, and flashed its glowing red eyes. Its skin was scaly like that of a lizard, and horns curved out of its temples. From its back sprouted two massive leathery wings, and its long muscular tail was serrated and razor-sharp, chiseling bits out of the stone buildings and street as it whipped about. Its talonlike hands opened wide as it sped toward him, ready to embrace him in its vile grasp.
Cotford heard the people on the streets screaming in terror as they scattered for safety, leaving him alone. He prayed for his immortal soul and for courage. It was time to balance the scales. He wrapped the towel around the broken katana to form a makeshift handle as he charged, raising the blade and aiming for the monster’s heart as it flew over him, but he was too slow. It was flying so fast that he only managed to embed the weapon in the gargoyle’s leg. He heard it howl in pain as it crashed to the ground behind him.
Cotford was about to turn to continue the fight when he saw out of the corner of his eye the deadly tail whipping toward him.
The last thought that entered his mind was Van Helsing’s warning: What you do not see WILL kill you.
Mina dashed down the stairs to the train platform. Waiting passengers scattered as she approached. She looked down at her hands, covered in Cotford’s blood. Her dress was stained with the blood of the Woman in White. As the whistle blew, she ran to the last carriage of the train that had just pulled in. She was about to board when she heard a strange sound, like a child bouncing a ball.
Mina turned back to see Cotford’s severed head bouncing down the steps. As it hit the platform with a sickening crunch, it rolled over. She expected to see Cotford’s final expression to be one of abject terror. Instead, the old inspector’s face was frozen into one of a serene calm. He appeared more peaceful in death than she had ever seen him in life.
A hideous roar shook Mina to her core, and she heard the sound of bricks being smashed. The shadow of a winged beast moved along the stairs.
The second whistle blew. Mina was tired of running. She wanted the battle to begin, but she knew that the longer she kept up the chase, the more time she would buy for Quincey, Arthur, and Van Helsing. The last carriage’s metal doors closed in front of her. She reached out and with all her might pried the doors back open and fell in as the train started to move.
Dr. Max Windshoeffel and his wife chose not to board the train after seeing the blood-covered woman and the severed head that had rolled onto the platform. They would wait for the last tube to take them from the Strand to Finsbury Park. Max moved his wife away from the gory sight of the severed head, wondering if he should alert the police. As a doctor, it was his civic responsibility. His thoughts were interrupted by the horrendous sound of breaking bricks followed by an earsplitting screech.
A winged dragonlike creature suddenly appeared, flying out of the stairwell. Both he and his wife were too frightened to scream. The demon’s tail, whipping behind it, sliced through the station wall’s green and white tiles as if they were tissue paper. The demon then swooped down into the tunnel as if it were chasing the train. Max Windshoeffel had made up his mind. He was going to tell no one what he had seen.
“Get out!” Mina hissed at the few passengers in the carriage. She smashed the seat in front of her and broke off a sharp stake of wood. The combination of this act, her bloodstained appearance, and the gruesome sound now echoing through the tunnel, motivated the other passengers to move quickly forward into the adjoining carriage.
Mina looked back through the rear door to the see the gargoyle in pursuit. She suddenly felt a sensation she had only felt in her dreams for the past twenty-five years. Mina could feel Dracula’s presence draw near. It’s him. He’s come for me!
In the tunnel, the gargoyle’s wings crumbled a section of the cylindrical wall, leaving shattered bricks and a large dust cloud in its wake. Mina’s hand gripped the wooden stake. “That’s it. Keep coming. Time is no longer on your side.”
There was a sharp gust of wind as a clawed fist smashed in the back door of the carriage. The heavy metal door smashed onto the floor of the train. Mina expected to see the hideous gargoyle in the doorway glaring at her, but to her surprise, she looked up to see only the glowing red mist cascading into the carriage. The mist pooled on the floor, and from within the swirling, blood-colored fog, a human form began to rise.
Thoughts of Dracula seeped into Mina’s mind. God help her. What if it was he? The idea of seeing his face after all these years excited her, despite the evil he might have committed this night. She could not help it.
As the fog dissipated, a tall figure, dressed in black, stepped from the mist. Mina’s anticipation made her breathless. “Prince Dracula,” she whispered.
“Sorry to disappoint,” Bathory sneered.
The love rising within Mina instantly curdled to hate. As the countess marched toward her, she noticed that Cotford had impaled Bathory’s leg with Jonathan’s katana, but the blade did not seem to slow her.
“You will not violate me again, Countess,” Mina said, holding the stake before her. “This time I am prepared for you.”
Bathory laughed. “Dracula’s blood may grant you a modicum of strength, but do not think you are a match for me. I am the queen of my kind.”
“You are a twisted, murdering sadist,” Mina hissed. “By God, I will see this world free of your evil, or die fighting it.”
“Oh, you will die, my sweet. You will die with the knowledge that your son and all your friends shall also perish this night. I promise you, their deaths will be brutal and merciless . . . as shall yours.”
The mention of her son enraged her. Mina would never let this monster harm Quincey. She would use the wooden stake to rip the sneer from Bathory’s contemptible face. Unleashing a war cry like the one she had heard Quincey P. Morris utter so many years ago, Mina raced forward.
Bathory growled with pleasure as Mina cocked her arm and angled the wooden stake straight for her heart, then merely reached out and caught the stake in midair. She pulled with her incredible strength so that Mina was thrown to her knees, straight into Bathory’s clutches. Grabbing Mina by the hair, the she-devil forced her head back, stretching her alabaster neck. Then Bathory drew a blade. Mina recognized it: This curved amputation lancet was the preferred weapon of Jack the Ripper. Her eyes went wide with new terror as she struggled to break free of Bathory’s iron grip, but the more Mina struggled, the more Bathory became aroused. Consumed with diabolical passion, the countess raised the blade to slash Mina’s neck, savoring each second of the bloody violence to come.
Despite her newfound strength, Mina was no match for Bathory. Nearly four hundred years of drinking human blood had made the countess almost indomitable. Mina had failed to protect Quincey. All that was left was to pray.
With blade poised to strike, Bathory leaned down to lick Mina’s ear, whispering sweetly, “Time to g
reet the Ripper.”
CHAPTER XLIX.
Van Helsing shot forward, slamming Quincey and Arthur Holm wood into the wall. He was so close to them that he could see his reflection in their eyes and was glad the old myth that vampires cast no reflection was wrong. He also realized why they were frozen in horror: His wild look, his pitch-black eyes, and his sharp fangs all stood in stark contrast to the weak old man they once knew.
When he had drunk Dracula’s blood, he’d had no idea just how empowering it would be. No longer shaky and brittle, Van Helsing now had the strength of a powerful warrior. He felt young again. He was whole. He had been reborn.
Quincey recovered more quickly than Holmwood, but Van Helsing gave him no time to fight back, simply picking up the lad and sending him flying as if he were a feather pillow. Quincey landed against the oak wardrobe, smashing its mirror.
Van Helsing laughed to see the look of shock on Holmwood’s face. “It was I who told our story to Bram Stoker. My first feeble attempt at immortality . . .”
“You were the one who betrayed our oath?”
Van Helsing shook his head in dismay. Arthur Holmwood could only see things in black or white. He was like a trained dog. Grabbing Holmwood by his lapels, he casually tossed him across the room onto a velvet chaise longue.
Now he had Arthur Holmwood’s full attention.
“You were given eyes, but you do not see. Asking Stoker to write my biography was not a betrayal,” Van Helsing said. “Through him, I intended to pass on all the wisdom I had gained. My biography was to be a warning to future generations, a guidebook on how to battle the supernatural creatures I had fought my entire life. Instead, Stoker penned a fanciful mockery of the truth.”
Van Helsing sensed Quincey’s movement beside him and turned to see the boy eyeing the table full of weapons across the room. In that same moment, he felt the mild sensation of a chair being smashed across his back. He would barely have noticed it save for the wooden debris falling noisily about him. Van Helsing returned his attention to the surprised Arthur Holmwood, who was still grasping the broken pieces of two chair legs. He sensed Quincey moving across the room to the weapons. Two birds with one stone. Van Helsing picked up and threw Arthur Holmwood straight into Quincey, knocking the wind, and hopefully the fight, out of both of them. He was beginning to enjoy this. He hoped that after this painful demonstration, perhaps Arthur would listen to reason. Instead Holmwood, the old fool, reached into his pocket and brandished a gold cross.
“Every day for the last twenty-five years, I have regretted not joining Lucy in immortality,” Holmwood spat. He advanced on Van Helsing, the cross held aloft. “You stopped me. You made me destroy her. You made me drive the stake into her heart to end her ‘evil existence,’ as you called it!”
“Lucy, Lucy, always Lucy,” Van Helsing said.
He reached out and took hold of the cross in Holmwood’s hand. Time to teach this fool a lesson. He was not remotely repelled by the cross. By joining the ranks of the un-dead, one did not necessarily ally oneself with the Devil.
Arthur was frozen in confusion. “Why?”
“Why is the cross not having any effect on me? The same reason the cross had no effect on Prince Dracula. Only a creature that fears God would fear His symbols. Your Lucy feared God.” With a snarl, Van Helsing wrenched the cross from Holmwood’s hand and threw it across the room. “If Dracula came to you at the moment of your death, Arthur, what choice would you have made?”
Without taking a moment to answer, Arthur dived for the weapons table.
Foolish. Van Helsing pounced to block his path. “It does not have to be this way. You can come with me.” He turned to make eye contact with the bewildered Quincey Harker. “You both can.”
“Never!” Quincey cried. He lunged at Van Helsing. Holmwood tried to snatch the bowie knife from the table, but the professor knocked him to the floor, spun around to catch Quincey, and twisted him like a rag.
“To face death in the heat of battle is quite different from waiting for it to creep up on you through old age,” Van Helsing said. He pulled back Quincey’s head, exposing his neck. “I tried to warn you, boy.”
Van Helsing did not want to harm a lad he had once bounced upon his knee. Arthur Holmwood was too blinded by a quarter of a century of rage to see reason. But he had hoped he could persuade Quincey to join him. He had made a promise to Prince Dracula not to harm the lad, but to weaken him so he could easily be taken back to his mother. He licked his fangs in anticipation of the first taste of blood he would take by his own hand.
“Hypocrite!” Arthur Holmwood yelled.
Van Helsing heard a bang and felt a sharp pain in his back.
Holmwood’s gun ripped a second bullet through Van Helsing’s shoulder and sliced into Quincey’s arm. The lad cried out in pain, and Van Helsing let him slip to the floor as a third bullet slammed through his body.
“You were our friend!” Holmwood said.
“I still can be,” Van Helsing replied. “So can Dracula. It’s not too late.”
“I will not betray my faith.”
Faith? What did Arthur Holmwood really know of faith? It was only when Van Helsing had opened his eyes to the evil that walked the earth that he had found faith. Well, if Arthur was so devout, then he surely knew that God was the creator of vampires. And God gave the un-dead the same freedom of choice that He gave to man: the choice to take the path of good or the path of evil. With incredible speed, he moved to disarm Holmwood. Perhaps without a gun in hand, Arthur would listen. But to the old man’s surprise, Arthur would not be relieved of his weapon. Two shots thundered out. Arthur Holmwood’s body quaked. A look of astonishment appeared in his pale blue eyes. Both men looked down to see a well of blood pouring from his chest.
With great sadness, Van Helsing whispered, “Only now, in the end, do you understand the fear of death.”
“Arthur?” Quincey shouted.
At first it appeared as if Arthur was nodding, but then his eyes rolled back in his head, and the once-great man fell to the floor.
“No!” Quincey screamed. He charged at the professor, but Van Helsing simply caught him by the throat and shoved him against the bureau. He yanked the lad’s head back again, exposing his neck, and his mouth gaped abnormally wide as he curled back his lips to reveal his fangs. Then he bent toward Quincey’s throat.
CHAPTER L.
Francis Aytown was not a lucky man. He was never at the right place at the right time. As a photographer, he had worked alongside the much-lauded John J. Thomson, who documented London street life in glorious stills. Thomson had gone to do the same in China, but Aytown had not wanted to travel so far. Thomson went alone and became the photographer of the Chinese emperor and later the British Royal Family. If only Aytown had taken the chance, how different his life could have been.
This evening had become a reminder of his folly. He now earned a shilling per frame by taking still photographs for tourists, especially those leaving the West End theatres. He had been working outside the Globe and Olympic theatres and had not learned of the Lyceum fire until the theatre had been reduced to nothing more than a smoldering pile. What a sum a picture of the flames would have fetched from the Daily Telegraph or the Times.
He had only just set up on the corner of Wych and Newcastle to take pictures of patrons leaving the nearby theatres when he heard the screams a few streets away. Grabbing his camera, he darted toward the direction of the commotion.
In front of the Strand tube station, there was mayhem. Police vehicles had cordoned off the entrance to the Underground trains. Aytown approached a constable. “What’s happened, mate?”
“There’s been a murder. Some wild animal escaped from the zoo. A man was killed.”
Aytown wondered about this. London Zoo was a fair way north at Regent’s Park. How could an escaped animal travel so far without being stopped by the police? Something was not right. His thoughts were interrupted by a shadow moving across the street. Aytown
glanced about. Storm clouds shrouded the moon, and the ominous shadow began to move, appearing to vanish into the entrance of the tube station.
Something was definitely not right.
CHAPTER LI.
Bathory’s grip on Mina’s neck felt like the wooden stock of a guillotine. The amputation lancet was the guillotine’s blade slicing through the air. Mina threw her hands up to block the deadly strike. Her fingers clasped Bathory’s forearm like a shackle, stopping the blade an inch from her skin. Bathory’s bloodred lips twisted into a smile and she chuckled low in her throat, pushing her arm against Mina’s grip, pressing the blade closer. It appeared she was giving the sadist exactly what she wanted: a fight. The harder Mina resisted, the more aroused Bathory became. At the end of her strength, in a last act of defiance, Mina decided she would deny Bathory this satisfaction. She closed her eyes and released her grip.
There came the sound of thunder. Mina opened her eyes to see the lancet hanging at the countess’s side. Splinters of wood and electrical sparks showered down upon them. There was a thud inside the carriage as something heavy landed on the wooden floor. The countess, in a state of shock, was staring upward. Mina followed her gaze to see that the roof of the train had been ripped open. When she looked back, it was to find a dark figure crouched on all fours in the middle of the carriage. The figure’s head hung low. He had a thick mane of pitch-black hair. Even bent forward, it was obvious he was over six feet tall. His hands were elegant, the long fingers like those of a concert pianist.
