by Dacre Stoker
Quincey fought in vain to hold back his tears. He took hold of Holmwood’s hand. Van Helsing had accused Holmwood of being afraid of death. But Quincey saw in Holmwood’s face only peace and a small smile. Arthur was at last achieving what he wanted.
Quincey was the one who was afraid and panicked. “Something is happening to me, Arthur. You saw what I was able to do. I’m cursed. I’m damned. If Dracula’s wretched blood is in Mina, then his blood is in me as well. What am I going to do? You can’t leave me, Arthur. Don’t leave me.”
Holmwood called on the last of his great strength to speak. “It isn’t a curse. Don’t you see? It can be a blessing. You are as strong as he. You can defeat both Dracula and Bathory.” Bubbles of blood foamed out of his mouth. His muscles stiffened and he gritted out one last breath: “Bury me with my Lucy. . . .”
Quincey watched helplessly as the mighty spark that was Arthur Holmwood was finally extinguished. The great lord’s battles had finally come to an end. Quincey at last understood why he had sought out death for all these years. In death, he would gain his fondest wish, to be reunited with the love of his life.
Quincey looked at his dirty, bloodied hands. Holmwood had said it was a blessing that Quincey was as strong as Dracula, that he could defeat him. But would this power corrupt him as it had his enemy? Would the evil consume him while he tried to hunt down the very creature that cursed him?
“Where it all began.”
Quincey was startled by the sound of his mother’s voice whispering in his ear. He looked around, but she was nowhere to be seen. There was no one save the crowd of onlookers.
“Where it all began, my son.”
This time his mother’s voice was crystal clear, unmistakable. Quincey gently laid Arthur Holmwood’s body on the ground, unsure of what to do next. He had no plan. He was utterly alone.
“Where it all began, my son. My love.”
The vampire blood within Mina was calling out to him. Stoker’s novel had described the mental connection between Dracula and Mina. That mental connection was now a triangle. This time, Mina’s voice came not only with words but with images as well: a broken-down, centuries-old monastery high upon a cliff, beside a graveyard and a stone chair, with the angry sea lapping below.
It all began in Whitby, at Carfax Abbey. Mina was with Dracula, and they were waiting for him.
Alarm bells rang out around him. He could hear the cartwheels and the horses’ hooves on the cobbles. The onlookers who’d broken away from the crowd returned, running beside a police carriage, which pulled up in front of the hotel. Quincey’s pulse quickened when he recognized the tall policeman emerging from the coach. He was the one who had the sketch of him and Holmwood. It was time for Quincey’s nightmares to end once and for all.
Perhaps it was his destiny to destroy Dracula. Perhaps God had shown Quincey a way to turn his own curse into a blessing. Quincey had nothing left. There was only one option left for him: He had to save his immortal soul. He would go to Whitby, to Carfax. With God at his side, he would confront the demon. If he could kill Dracula, perhaps he could break the curse and save himself and his mother from eternal damnation. If he was to die in battle against such great evil, Quincey prayed the gesture would be enough for God to forgive him.
The tall policeman made his way through the crowd. It was time to go.
As Quincey ran off, he heard the startled cries from the crowd and sensed astonishment from the tall policeman. Then he was running like the wind, faster than any man could possibly run. The curse was unleashed. He was free at last.
CHAPTER LV.
The sun was rising in the morning sky. Dracula and Mina had been driving all night. During the silence of the drive, Mina’s mind had been filled with a cascade of random, anxious thoughts. But over and over again she came to the same conclusion. Zealotry and obsession led to only one place. From her many experiences in life, she knew this to be true, yet Mina could not stop her blood from boiling with rage as they sped north. The violent events of the previous night replayed themselves on an endless loop. The death and destruction caused by Bathory over the centuries were immeasurable, the human wreckage left in her wake incalculable. The more Mina thought about the countess, the angrier she became. The angrier she became, the harder she pressed down on the throttle. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the blood was forced from her knuckles. Bathory had violated her, tried to kill her, and most grievous of all, she had threatened Quincey’s life. There was no longer any doubt in Mina’s mind. For the first time, her human blood merged in perfect harmony with the vampire’s. She intended to utterly destroy Countess Elizabeth Bathory.
Mina sped the motorcar around a donkey-drawn milk cart. The animal came to a sudden stop, and pulled back. The cart’s driver screamed behind her. Only then did Mina realize how fast she was going. She needed to calm down and sort things out in a rational manner. It was what she did best. She could not let zealotry and obsession blind her or she would be no better than Bathory. In the fifteenth century, a noble had had to be brave to inspire his people to follow him. But it was not bravery that kept peasants in line when the tax season came. It was fear. The peasants outnumbered the noble families by a hundred to one. A nobleman had to be cruel to instill fear in his people, and just as brutal to make his rivals too afraid to attack him. Blood was cheap in the fifteenth century. Murder and death were common. Brutality was an accepted form of control. The only thing that separated the beloved rulers from the tyrants was whether or not their cruelty was justified. It was from these dark ages that Bathory and Dracula had sprung. They were the last surviving relics of a bygone era.
A stalled motorcar suddenly appeared in the middle of the road. Mina pulled hard on the brake, turned the wheel sharply, and drove the motorcar off the road, barely missing a tree. The car shuddered to an awkward stop, and she took a moment to breathe and at last allowed herself to look down beside her. Wrapped in the blanket on the floor, protected from the sun, his body tightly curled to fit the small space, Dracula gave no indication of awareness. Mina was so confused by the man, the creature, beside her. He was capable of such bravery and great love, he was loyal and generous, and yet he could be violent beyond words. She feared what might happen if she allowed Dracula to influence Quincey. He could perhaps protect them from Bathory, but at what cost to Quincey’s immortal soul? The daylight hours were the time of Dracula’s slumber, when he could heal and rest.
Mina tried to find Bathory in her mind, but all she found were clouds and sky. What that meant, she could not be sure. Obviously, the fact that it was such a small amount of blood she had exchanged with Bathory made it impossible for Mina to obtain a clear picture of her actions. No doubt Bathory had planned it this way. But Bathory had been badly burned, and also needed time to regenerate. The question was, how long?
Mina backed the vehicle onto the road. She had to take herself to a familiar place she could defend, somewhere to regroup with Quincey. She had to go back to Carfax Abbey.
Upon returning to England after her wedding, Mina had learned of Lucy’s death. She and Jonathan had not yet consummated their wedding vows, for Jonathan had been too sick from his ordeal in Transylvania, and Mina too overwhelmed by grief. Somehow, though, Jonathan had found the strength to join the band of heroes to find and destroy Dracula’s coffins. It was on that night that Dracula had first come to Mina. She had been shocked that Dracula was as much in mourning for Lucy as she was. He blamed her death on Van Helsing. Mina did not know what to believe. She could not match the monster Van Helsing spoke of with the handsome regal prince who now brought her comfort. Not wanting to tell Jonathan that Dracula had come to her, Mina had said that Dracula had explained the true nature of Lucy’s death in a dream. Fearing that she had been influenced by the monster, Van Helsing had insisted she be kept out of all their plans. As she wrote in her journals at the time, “It is strange to me to be kept in the dark as I am to-day, after Jonathan’s full confidence for so many years.�
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She had been angry at Jonathan then. Their relationship had been strained. She and Jonathan were staying at Dr. Seward’s residence in Whitby when Dracula came to her late in the night. He had professed his love for her, and offered her the realization of all her dreams and desires. While Jonathan lay asleep beside her, she had allowed herself to be swept off her feet, and willingly went away with the prince to Carfax Abbey. That time, alone with Dracula in the abbey ruins, had been the first time in months that she felt at peace, safe and truly loved.
“I have not dared return to Whitby,” Mina said aloud now, in the hope she could convince herself that she was doing the right thing. “I have not been to Carfax Abbey since the night we spent together. When we . . .” She couldn’t say the words for the flood of mixed emotions that swept through her. She remembered how much she’d yearned to relive that night she had spent with Dracula in Carfax.
Mina thought Dracula was asleep, and was surprised when his words emerged from beneath the blanket. “It is fitting. It will end where it all began.”
Spoken like a warrior. There was no compromise in him. Bathory had survived for centuries by plotting and retreating. By contrast, Dracula charged in where others feared to tread. But there was a price for his courage, paid by all those around him. Blood always begat more blood. Constant fighting was no way to live: It was not the life lesson she wanted to bequeath to Quincey.
Quincey was the future. Mina needed to ensure that he would survive them all. The blood flowing through her veins gave her the strength to defend him from Bathory, and he needed protection now more than ever. He had never witnessed the full strength of a vampire. She sensed that he had received her telepathic message and was coming to meet them. If she was right in her prediction that Bathory needed time to heal, there was still a chance for him to escape. If Quincey managed to reach Carfax before Bathory found them, Mina could perhaps take a ship to America with her son. Once Quincey was safe and out of Bathory’s reach, Mina could return, and instead of being the hunted, she would become the hunter. She and Dracula could track down Bathory, discover where she slept during daylight hours, and destroy her while she lay defenseless in her coffin.
Mina sped across the English countryside, the sun beginning to lower on the horizon. They had been driving for much of the day, giving her time to think it through. Her rationality had won out over her primal instincts. Zealotry and obsession were the tragic character flaws of the likes of Bathory, Cotford, and Dracula. They would not be hers. She and Quincey would survive because they were willing to walk away. They would live to fight another day.
Sergeant Lee opened the wardrobe and peered cautiously into the darkness. There was nothing inside but hanging clothes. Closing the door, he peered out of the adjacent window to inspect the night sky, which was full of rain, distant thunder, and lightning. Lee drew the curtains shut. “All clear. Nothing to be afraid of.”
“Under the bed,” whispered the voice behind him.
Under the bed. Of course. Lee was so tall, he loathed having to crouch down onto the floor, but to keep the peace, he obeyed. Nothing. Not even a stray sock. “All’s clear,” he announced. “There are no monsters here.”
He stood up and looked into the relieved eyes of his five-year-old son, turned and smiled at his four-year-old daughter. Both children were curled up in their beds under the covers. Lee hated to lie to his children. No one knew better than he that there really were monsters in the world. Not the kind that children imagined, goblins and the like, but real monsters—those that prowled the darkened streets of London, looking to do others harm. The kind of monsters he had sworn to bring to justice. It was better that children remained innocent of such real-world horrors for as long as they could.
Lee smoothed the covers as he leaned over and kissed his children on their foreheads. “Good night. Sweet dreams.”
“Don’t forget the door, Daddy,” his daughter whispered urgently.
“I’ll leave it ajar as always.” Lee smiled. “I love you.” His children believed that the light from the hallway sconces repelled monsters.
If only it were that simple.
He stepped into the hall to see his wife, already in her nightclothes and cap, waiting to say good night, and recognized the look of concern on her face. He took his wife by the arm and led her into the living room. He needed to talk, and he wanted to ensure it was out of earshot of the children.
“What are you going to tell them?” she asked with grave concern.
“I don’t want you to worry yourself. It will be all right,” Lee said. He had been beside himself with sadness since receiving the telegram from Scotland Yard earlier that evening, and his wife had been on the verge of panic. The telegram was an official confirmation, but Lee had already heard the sad news from Inspector Huntley, who had been to the area surrounding the Strand tube station that morning. Inspector Cotford, the police surgeon, Constable Price, and the policemen who had accompanied them were dead. Scotland Yard’s top brass had many unanswered questions, and Lee was to commence his night shift with a summons to the deputy commissioner’s office to describe his part in the actions of Inspector Cotford. He brushed the dust from his knees and tucked in his crisp white shirt.
Upon learning that Cotford had died for his beliefs, Lee’s initial instinct had been to pick up the sword from his dead friend’s hand and continue the charge. But, as Lee forced his rage aside, he realized he could not allow himself to give way to vengeance. He could not allow himself to be consumed like Cotford. He refused to travel down that dark path. It was hard for him to admit it, but Van Helsing and Cotford were opposite sides of the same coin. Both had been consumed by a dark quest. In the end, telling the truth would never bring Cotford back, nor would it prove the identity of Jack the Ripper. Lee’s superiors would reprimand him, possibly even discharge him from duty for taking part in Cotford’s unwarranted and foolhardy investigation. He could not risk his career by telling his superiors what they didn’t want to hear. Without his job, how would Lee support his family? Providing as best as he could for one’s family is what a man should be measured by—not by how many felons he’d collared. On this point, he differed greatly from the late Inspector Cotford. There would always be delinquents roaming the street: It was a never-ending battle. Lee looked back down the hallway to his children’s room and imagined them drifting into peaceful sleep. He felt no guilt as he decided what he had to do: He would betray Inspector Cotford. He would lie to his superiors and go on record to state that Cotford was as mad as the March Hare, and had lost all sense of reason. It would not be a complete lie. Cotford was a fanatic, and it was his downfall. Lee would testify that he realized Cotford’s folly, and that was the reason he refused to join the inspector in his new investigation into the Ripper murders. Yet, he respected the chain of command and did not go behind Inspector Cotford’s back to report him to their superiors. After all, Huntley had given his word that he would never implicate him. Being a former army man, as Lee was, the deputy commissioner would accept this explanation and respect his loyalty. He believed that this course of action would even help his career by positioning himself as a man who could be trusted.
After pulling on his overcoat, putting his hat on his head, and kissing his wife, Lee ushered her to bed. Once he heard the master bedroom door close, he hurried into his study and unlocked the lower desk drawer. He pulled out the old Ripper suspect profile that Cotford had taken from Scotland Yard. Reading the name on the file gave Lee a shudder: DR. ABRAHAM VAN HELSING.
Lee returned to the living room and stoked the fireplace with the poker. The moment of truth. His guilt rising again, he attempted to justify his action. He had deduced from the evidence at the Midland Grand Hotel that Arthur Holmwood had pierced Van Helsing with an arrow and that both men had fallen to their deaths. If Cotford was right and Van Helsing was Jack the Ripper, then it was truly over. Cotford was never one to seek glory. He’d sought only justice, and justice had been done. As for Mina Ha
rker, no evidence remained to tie her to any crime. Lee was certain it was Quincey Harker he’d seen hovering over the body of Holmwood outside the Midland Grand. Regardless of what he thought he saw, he would stick to the facts. The facts were . . . he had no real evidence against Quincey Harker. Besides, the alley murder case, the one that had started all of this, belonged to Inspector Huntley. Let it be on Huntley’s head.
Lee tossed the Van Helsing file into the fireplace and watched the papers darken, smoke, and burn. He had had it with Jack the Ripper. He begged God to forgive him. Right or wrong, Lee’s part in this story was finished.
The clouds churned and rolled quickly over the moon, plunging the English countryside into darkness. Quincey’s horse charged along the coast, panting, heaving, and sweating. It flinched at the roar of distant thunder. An angry jag of lightning ripped through the sky, causing Quincey’s mount to stop in its tracks and then suddenly bolt. Quincey dug in his heels and held tightly to the reins, trying to retain his balance. At last getting the horse under control, Quincey patted its neck, reassuring it. It was as if the weather was throwing everything at him to slow his progress. Didn’t Stoker mention in his novel that Dracula could control the weather? There was hardly a soul left to ask whether Stoker’s assumptions were true.
Dracula knows I’m coming.
Quincey gripped with his legs and sent the horse charging forward again. It was the blood. Whatever he knew, so did Dracula. Surprise was out of the question. Quincey understood that the odds were not in his favor, but he would not waver in his pursuit. Dracula had to die.
If Quincey had been asked about his belief in the supernatural two months ago, he would have laughed out loud. Now he knew different. It was up to him to finish the grim task the brave band of heroes began twenty-five years ago.
