by Dacre Stoker
Mina’s heart sang. She knew those hands. She had seen them kill, seen them covered in blood. She had also felt their loving caress. Slowly he rose, reaching his full stature, and a yearning surged through Mina’s body. She was no longer alone. He had come back to her in the moment of her greatest need. But, after all she had done to hurt him, would he really save her? Could he still love her?
The man raised his head, the black locks falling back from his face. His wolflike eyes narrowed on Bathory, and his fierce expression was just as Mina remembered it. He was at once beautiful and terrible, kind and merciless. He was love and hate. At last Mina spoke the name that she’d held in her mind for a quarter of a century.
“Dracula . . .”
Bathory’s hold on Mina’s neck tightened at the sound of the name. She focused her hatred on the intruder, hissing, “Your ability to cheat death is most disturbing.”
Despite her pain, Mina found joy. Dracula was gazing at her with the same longing she had felt for him. His expression confirmed what she longed to believe. Dracula was indeed a killer, but he was not cruel. The one she loved could never be in league with a sadistic monster like Bathory.
Dracula’s black eyes flashed back to the countess, his face contorted into an expression of fury. Bathory would receive all the pain she deserved, and her death would be terrible. His voice was a deep growl spoken through clenched teeth: “Come to me, Countess. Come and die.”
Bathory threw her arm back, and Mina felt herself fly through the air. Pain slammed through her head as she hit the metal wall of the carriage. Drifting into unconsciousness, Mina thought, He has returned.
Bathory looked upon the man standing before her. How could the infernal prince still be alive? She had killed him twice. Her anger boiled. Her desire for vengeance would never be sated. She wished nothing more than to destroy God’s crusader, Dracula, once and for all, to bring damnation upon him, upon all of the hypocrites who followed God, even upon God himself. Bathory leapt. She soared through the air, lancet poised, aiming for Dracula’s eyes, hoping to blind him.
Before Bathory’s blade could find its deadly mark, the dark prince rose to meet her. The combatants clashed in midair. They grappled along the ceiling of the moving carriage, defying all laws of physics. Dracula slammed his knee into Bathory’s stomach and she flew off the ceiling and into the window. Glass shattered outward into the tunnel. Dracula lunged to push her out, but Bathory flew back, straightening her body as she shot across the train, becoming a battering ram, hitting Dracula mid-torso. To her great surprise, he cried out in pain as he was thrown into the long bench, splintering the wood as he fell. Wasting no time, Bathory dived on top of him and plunged the lancet into his belly, cutting through his skin like butter. Dracula’s precious blood flowed out, and the scent of the kill overtook her. She plunged the lancet again and again into Dracula’s flesh and he screamed in unbearable pain. Bathory’s confidence soared. He had grown weak!
Bathory had always considered herself queen of her kind. Now she would be king as well. God’s champion was ripe for the taking. With Dracula out of the way, the way would be paved for her great plan. She would be benevolent to all of those to whom God showed no mercy. The impoverished wretches, the sexual deviants, the mentally unstable, the sick and the angry, the meek of the earth, the inheritors of the world; all these lowest of the low she would raise up and fulfill their long-suffering dreams. They would become her loyal servants. To those who pledged their loyalty to God and his teachings, she would break their backs on the wheel of her own inquisition. She would feed upon the wealthy and the powerful as they had fed upon the weak. Armies would be crushed beneath her feet. She would tear down the churches with her bare hands and force her blood down the Pope’s throat. She was determined to remake the world in her own image, and Dracula’s death would strike the first blow to herald her coming.
Bathory grabbed Dracula by the throat. He put up no resistance: He’d lost too much blood, and he was weak. She dug her fangs deep into his neck. Now she would take his blood, all he knew, all he was, all his power, all his strength. When she had still been human, Dracula had drained her and left her bleeding, but he had not drunk the last drop. He could not kill her himself: They were family; he loved her. Bathory was not burdened by such conflict. She planned to drink until the last breath crossed his lips.
Mina’s vision was blurry when she regained consciousness. Through the pain in her head and the fog over her eyes, she saw two dark figures grappling on the far side of the carriage. One was clearly stronger than the other. Mina could never relish murder, but this time victory was sweet. She wanted to cry out, Die, you witch, die! She wanted Dracula to tear Bathory limb from limb. It would not erase the memory of what Bathory had done to her, but her death would go a long way to making the memory less painful.
Mina sat up, focused on the struggle in front of her, and discovered how wrong she was. Bathory’s teeth were in Dracula’s neck. He was struggling to escape her bite. He was bleeding from his gut. How could this be? For the first time, Mina understood why Dracula had remained in hiding: Bathory was more powerful than he was. If Dracula could not destroy Bathory, then what chance did she, Arthur, and Quincey have, even if they found Van Helsing alive?
Mina looked around for some sort of weapon. A long, thick electrical wire hung from where Dracula had burst through the ceiling. She yanked, and the wire came free. What could she really do with a wire? Tying it about Bathory would be useless. Mina saw the smashed door lying on the floor of the carriage. She tied one end of the thick wire to it and turned back to the battling foes.
With what seemed to be the last of his strength, Dracula grabbed hold of Bathory’s face and dug his thumb deep into her eye socket. A viscous, multicolored fluid oozed from the hole where her eye had been. She ripped her fangs from Dracula’s neck and wailed in misery. Keeping his hand gripped on her skull, Dracula arched Bathory’s head back and twisted, growling like a wild animal as he tried to snap her neck.
Bathory yanked Dracula’s hand from her face. A black hole where her eye had been now spewed blood. She slammed him against the floor, arching her head back as she wailed in agony. Mina took this moment of weakness to swing the other end of the wire around Bathory’s neck.
The countess spun to face Mina. “You whore!”
Mina replied by kicking the broken door through the hole at the back of the carriage. The door echoed loudly in the dark tunnel as the train clanged along the tracks, igniting sparks as it skidded against the electrical rail. At last, the metal door wedged itself, like an anchor.
Mina relished the look in Bathory’s lone eye as the bitch realized what she had done. She tried to run at Mina, but the wire around her neck suddenly pulled taut and Bathory was yanked out through the hole in the train and down onto the tracks.
Mina ran to the hole and stared out, prepared to see Bathory get back on her feet and come chasing after them. Instead, she saw the countess skid along the tracks until the metal blade of the katana, still lodged in her leg where Cotford had struck, caught the electrical rail, causing an explosion of sparks.
Bathory quivered on the tracks as the electricity surged through her. Her entire body glowed a brighter and brighter blue until she suddenly burst into flames. Bathory unleashed an unearthly shriek of pain, thrashing helplessly as the fire consumed her entire body.
Could it be that Mina had done the impossible: killed the vampire queen?
Francis Aytown was down to his last quarter-plate film. He set his camera upon his wooden tripod in the hope that a newsworthy photo would present itself. He had noticed the sheet that covered the victim’s body was stained with blood at the top. It occurred to him that the victim might have been decapitated. Perhaps his luck had finally changed.
Aytown positioned himself as close as he could to the entrance of the Strand tube station. A shot of the murdered victim’s headless corpse would fetch a good price. Unfortunately, the body had yet to be moved. He overheard
the constables mention that no one could locate the police surgeon.
A low guttural sound erupted in the distance. As it drew closer, the pitch intensified, until everyone standing near the station cupped their hands over their ears for protection.
An explosion of red-orange flames spewed from the tube station entrance. Aytown could not believe his eyes. A large creature emerged, shrieking as it thrashed across the Aldwych crescent. Ignoring the deafening pain in his ears, he grabbed his camera and released the shutter. He had no time to frame the shot and hoped he had been quick enough to capture the complete horror of what he saw in his lens. If he had, then his luck really would have changed. The picture would be worth a small fortune. That was no animal escaped from any zoo. It was a living, fire-breathing dragon!
CHAPTER LII.
“Professor, in God’s name, please,” Quincey begged.
Van Helsing regarded the lad with great sadness. “In God’s name, I plead with you one last time to join us.”
“I cannot,” Quincey replied in a quivering voice. “Dracula is the monster that defiled my mother and killed my father.”
The professor shook his head, despairing. “You leave me no choice.” With one swift movement, he bit deep into Quincey’s neck.
To his surprise, Van Helsing suddenly found himself flying across the room, smashing against the table of weapons, which scattered in his wake. Quincey looked down at his hands, frightened of his newfound strength. “God protect me!”
Van Helsing sat up and looked up in shock, trying to understand what had happened. Did this boy really have the strength to throw him across the room? Slowly, Van Helsing began to understand Dracula’s desire to keep Quincey Harker alive. The dark prince had clearly thought that he might come to be a great asset in the battle against Bathory. But if Quincey Harker was already so powerful and so full of misguided hate, he could become a liability. It was time to make a decision. Quincey had to die. Van Helsing hoped Dracula would understand.
He grabbed the bowie knife from the floor and went after Quincey with lightning speed, grabbing him by the throat and ramming him against the wall. He drew back the knife to plunge it into Quincey’s heart. May Dracula and God forgive him.
Van Helsing heard a thwack. He suddenly lost his grip on the bowie knife, and it tumbled to the floor. Quincey’s weight became overwhelming. He could no longer hold him. What was happening? He felt the familiar sensation of the Reaper’s grip. “No! Nog niet,” he gasped. “Not yet.”
He looked down. A wooden arrow tip protruded from his chest. Van Helsing turned to see a bloodied Arthur Holmwood propped against the far wall, holding the crossbow. Blood streamed from his wounds and his mouth.
Van Helsing had been shot through the heart: Sorrow overwhelmed him. He gazed at Holmwood, with tears stinging his eyes. “I have so many things to do, to learn, to see. I can’t die. Not yet.”
“Damn you, professor!” Holmwood cried. “Damn you to hell!” With a battle cry, he dropped the crossbow and charged at Van Helsing.
“Arthur, wait!” Quincey yelled.
It was too late. Arthur hurled himself at Van Helsing, and the momentum sent them both crashing through the window. As they plunged the five stories toward the unforgiving ground, Van Helsing realized that, with no other allies at his side, Dracula was too weak to battle Bathory alone. Unopposed, the countess would oversee the end of mankind.
Dear God, why have you abandoned us?
CHAPTER LIII.
As the tube approached Finsbury Park station, Mina dashed to where Dracula lay vulnerable and unconscious, propped up against one of the long benches in the carriage. Although he had lost a great deal of blood, she knew he was still alive. The wounds on his neck and abdomen would have killed any mortal, but for him they were already healing.
As if on cue, Dracula’s eyes fluttered open. Those pitch-black eyes, filled with such feeling; could they truly be soulless? Mina knelt beside her dark prince, and he reached out for her help. This was just like the moment at the castle gate in Transylvania, when Dracula was burning in the sun, the kukri knife impaling his heart. He had reached for her, and Mina had forsaken him for a more earthly choice: Jonathan. Now Jonathan was dead. The thought made her draw away.
“You killed Jonathan.”
Dracula’s dark eyes looked up, into what was left of her soul. There was a pain in his eyes as if her words hurt him more than any blow from Bathory. “If you truly believe that, you never knew me at all.”
Mina recalled hearing Dracula’s voice when she battled the Woman in White. He had saved her. She should have known better than to think he would ever harm her. No matter how terrible his actions, Dracula had never lied to her. Dracula would not have killed Jonathan. He loved her that much.
Mina took Dracula’s hand in hers. The icy cold of his touch sent shivers through her body, like a schoolgirl touched by her first love. She remembered the way he’d touched her that night so long ago, and she yearned for that passion again. Jonathan had been the love of her life, but Dracula was the passion.
A sudden high-pitched wail startled Mina. It was merely the brakes, slowing the Underground train. She looked up to see the other passengers in the next car gawking. Soon they would be surrounded.
It was time to flee.
Even before the train came to a complete stop, Mina and Dracula burst through the doors and bolted onto the platform. He was able to walk briskly but was unsteady on his feet. Mina threw his arm over her shoulder and wrapped her arm around his waist for support. She was frightened: The Dracula she had known was so powerful, and now he was a shadow of his former self. At the same time, Mina felt closer to him than ever before. For the first time, it was clear that he needed her, too.
After struggling up the stairs, they emerged from the station. Mina looked up into the night sky, sensing his thought in her mind. I know where you want to go. We won’t be able to reach our destination before sunrise.
Dracula nodded. She spied a cart with a single horse hitched to it across the street. There was no driver in sight, but there was a thick woolen blanket in the back. Mina grabbed the blanket and was about to help Dracula into the seat when they were suddenly blinded by bright lights as an open-topped motorcar appeared.
Again, she heard Dracula’s thoughts in her mind. A motorcar will be faster.
She propped Dracula against the cart, handed him the blanket, and dashed out in front of the motorcar, which quickly screeched to a halt.
“Oi, lady!” screamed the driver. “Watch where you’re going. I almost ran you—”
Before the man could finish his rant, Mina snatched him out of his seat and threw him out into the street. The astonished driver quickly scampered away, crying out for help. Mina turned to Dracula. He was smiling.
Mina hoisted the convertible roof and locked it into place, while Dracula stumbled into the passenger seat.
People on the street were staring at them; some started to come forward to assist the driver. It was time to move. Mina jumped into the driver’s seat, released the hand brake, put the car in gear, and sped away along the Seven Sisters Road, which would take them northwest out of London.
Mina looked at Dracula and was more certain than ever that she had made the right choice to help him. Bathory had to die, and Dracula, even in his weakened state, was still their best weapon. She thought of Quincey. Dracula’s choice of destination was tactically brilliant. There they would own the high ground on familiar terrain. She had to bring her son there, to the only place he would be safe. The only place they would all feel safe, even if right now safety was just an illusion.
CHAPTER LIV.
Quincey leaned out of the window of the Midland Grand’s upper floor. The battered bodies of Arthur Holmwood and Professor Van Helsing lay grotesquely sprawled on the street outside. The back of Van Helsing’s skull had exploded like a watermelon upon impact with the pavement. Dark blood pooled beneath the old man’s head and oozed out to the street, filling the cra
cks between the cobbles. Despite the gore, Van Helsing’s face held an expression of pure serenity. The old man appeared wise and scholarly again, as if he had finally found peace. Arthur Holmwood’s large frame enveloped Van Helsing’s body. His head lay on Van Helsing’s chest, sparing him the indignity of a cracked skull.
Through bitter tears, Quincey came to a realization: Dracula had won the war. Like a great military general, he had divided and conquered. Quincey had underestimated his foe, and his blunder had cost Arthur Holmwood his life. Now the foolish boy was the only one left for Dracula to conquer.
A group of morbid onlookers had gathered on Euston Road. Quincey felt the urge to run. The police were still looking for him, methodically searching building by building, street by street. No doubt the gathering crowd would draw them back to the hotel to investigate.
Racked with pain, he made his way down the stairs and through the lobby. The loss of blood from the gunshot wound in his arm should have left him so dizzy he could barely stand. But he did not feel at all weak. It had to be Dracula’s cursed blood within him. Quincey wondered if he had ever truly been human.
Out on the street, Arthur Holmwood moaned, trying to move. The crowd of onlookers gasped.
Quincey cried out, “Arthur!” He shoved his way through the astonished crowd, fell to his knees, and scooped Holmwood into his arms, peeling him away from Van Helsing’s corpse. Quincey gently cradled his head. He heard the crowd murmuring the word “murder.” He sensed a few onlookers breaking off from the pack to run up the streets, surely hurrying off to alert the authorities. He didn’t have much time.
Holmwood’s chiseled face was pale and swollen. Blood streamed from the wounds in his chest, his nose, mouth, and ears. He was brave and strong, but he couldn’t hide the agony he felt. He struggled to breathe.
