by Dacre Stoker
Carfax loomed solemnly in the night, much larger than Quincey had imagined. A flicker of light illuminated a solitary window. A beam from the lighthouse offshore swung past intermittently, casting long, gruesome shadows upon the ruined walls.
The wind and rain grew stronger as he pressed across the open field. Refusing to be defeated, he summoned his strength and charged forward with all of his might.
Quincey reached the abbey’s ornate wooden door at last and leaned against it in exhaustion. To his surprise, the door was unlocked and he slammed face-first into the hall. Scrambling to his feet, he forced the abbey door shut, locking out the storm. He looked out the windows to see if anyone was watching him but saw only lonely gravestones illuminated by flashes of lightning. There was no one outside but the dead.
Quincey tore through the abbey’s winding corridors and in time came to a long corridor lined with many doors. At the end was one door that was partially open and a stream of light crept from behind it. Quincey steadied his nerves and ran toward the light. He burst into the room.
He found no one.
Dozens of candles had melted down to pools of wax; there was an empty, unmade bed in the corner. Dying embers in the fireplace cast the only light in the room. There was a heap of clothing beside the bed. He turned, and felt something underfoot. He glanced down and his heart skipped a beat. He’d stepped on his mother’s cross lying on the floor. He knew she would never have willingly removed it. Enraged, he snatched up the small, gold cross and took to his heels, with no idea where he was going. He tried every door, but they were all rusted shut.
It would soon be dawn. Dracula would need to find a resting place. If there were any truth to Stoker’s novel, it would have to be where no sunlight could ever reach.
He found the main stairwell and descended quickly through the abbey. The stairwell was damp and rank with the stench of decay, and the deeper he traveled in the darkness, the closer he felt to his reckoning.
He found himself in a cavernous hall. Looking around, Quincey saw that he was in a mausoleum. Rows of shelves lined the walls. Within each alcove was a skeleton. Hundreds must have been buried here.
An ancient oil lamp sat beside the entrance. Quincey took it up. The glass was still warm. Someone had just entered this place. He searched through his pockets for the matches Arthur Holmwood had given him, praying they would be dry enough to ignite. His prayers were answered; Quincey struck flame to the wick, and the lantern sparked to life.
He walked to the center of the room, shining the lantern onto three large stone sarcophagi. The name upon the first was etched in Latin: ABBOTCARFAX.
A wooden crate beyond this was marked: PROPERTY OF VLADIMIR BASARAB.
Basarab! The name was now poison. Frantically, Quincey surveyed the area with the lamp, and his eyes fell upon a rusted shovel leaning in one corner. Placing the lantern on top of the sarcophagus, he grasped the shovel’s wooden handle and slammed it against the stone wall, shattering it into two pieces. With his newly fashioned stake in his hand, Quincey attacked the crate, using every ounce of his strength to pry open the lid.
As the lid ripped open, Quincey shouted in victory. Remembering the grave error his namesake had made in Transylvania, he kept his eyes shut, lest he be skewered by Dracula’s hypnotic gaze, and raised the sharpened stake, ready to strike into the vampire prince’s heart. He opened his eyes at the last second to focus on his target and froze in place as if his heart had stopped, unable to believe what he saw.
His mother lay dead inside the crate.
Quincey threw away the broken shovel handle and reached out to touch the face that had smiled at him, the lips that had kissed him. Those lips were cold now and lifeless. There would never be a chance for reconciliation or repentance now. Dracula had won.
Quincey’s fingers were bleeding from tearing open the crate. They left small droplets of blood on Mina’s pale lips. In a silent good-bye, he placed his hand on his mother’s chest and was shocked when he felt her chest heave suddenly. In absolute horror, he watched as his mother licked the droplets of his blood from her lips. Her eyelids flew open. Her gentle blue eyes had been replaced by pitch-black orbs. Her lips curled back, revealing long, sharp fangs. The scream that issued from her mouth was both terrifying and deafening. Before Quincey could react, Mina’s clawlike talons reached out and grabbed him by the throat.
CHAPTER LX.
Tears from heaven poured to the earth as if God knew that tonight his reign would finally end. The waves of the North Sea pitched high. Lightning ripped through the darkness. Thunder roared.
Bathory’s carriage bounced violently as it charged through the rain along the broken cobbles of Church Street. The roads leading to Carfax Abbey were muddy, and quickly becoming impassable. The carriage drew to a stop beside the one hundred and ninety-nine steps leading to the summit. Bathory’s carriage could go no farther. From here, she would have to climb the steps that were carved into the side of the cliff on foot.
She emerged from the carriage into the deluge. The raindrops on her bare scalp were a bitter reminder of how her raven-black locks had been burned away. The cold water on her still-hot flesh evaporated into steam immediately on contact.
Her solitary eye caught sight of a shadowy figure standing on a great boulder with its back to her, gazing out at the raging North Sea. He seemed unaware of her presence or even of the beating rain. Bathory bared her fangs. As slowly and as silently as she could, she snaked toward him. The rain will hide the sound of my footsteps.
No sooner had that thought passed through Bathory’s mind than the rain suddenly stopped. The clouds parted and the full moon cast its light upon the figure on the boulder.
“It is time to answer for all your sins.” Dracula’s baritone voice carried on the wind as he turned toward her. “Erzsébet.”
She hated the sound of her name in her native tongue, on Dracula’s lips. He said it not as a greeting but as a curse. Every cell in her body wanted to leap upon Dracula and tear him limb from limb. Bathory had waited centuries for this moment. She could afford to indulge him in a few more of his little games: What were a few more moments when an eternity lay before her? She sated her rising bloodlust by imagining herself ripping out Dracula’s flapping tongue and wearing it on a chain like a pendant.
As Bathory stepped into the moonlight, she saw Dracula’s eyes betray some alarm. Her newly hideous appearance had obviously caught him off his guard. If Bathory had had lips, she would have smiled. But, like her nose and eyelids, they had been eaten away by the flames in the Underground.
“With words of love, you ripped out my throat and left me to die,” Bathory hissed. “But now, with the powers of all the devils behind me, tonight I stand before you. I swear you will not cheat death again.”
Dracula stood upon the rock looking down at Bathory. With total confidence, he replied, “Be warned. God fights beside me.”
“It is your blind devotion to your God that will be your undoing.”
Dracula pulled back his cloak with one hand and cast something forward with the other. A glint in the moonlight marked the passage of two swords, which arced through the darkness before sticking, point first, into the earth.
“The old way,” Dracula challenged.
Bathory gazed upon the two weapons. “Your father’s sword?” she asked, nodding to the closer of the two.
“Yes,” Dracula said. “And the other is one of many that belonged to my brother.”
“You flatter me.”
Bathory approached the swords, studying them. Both had been beautifully crafted, in a style that had been common five hundred years ago. From the notches along the blades it was clear that both weapons had seen combat and spilled blood. How fitting. There was too much history between them to use virgin steel. Bathory picked up both blades, clenching them in her gnarled, skeletal hands. One had a hilt of wood with a pointed pommel that could be turned and used to stab. The other sword had an ivory hilt with a rounded pommel
, but its quillion was bent like a V, with the tip facing the handle. A superior fencer could use this shape to weaken the lower portion of the opponent’s blade. This was Radu’s blade. This was the weapon for her.
Without warning, Bathory threw the other sword to Dracula, at the same time leaping forward to slice at Dracula’s head.
With a speed that would have shamed lightning, Dracula caught his father’s sword in midair, shifted his weight to one side, and dodged Bathory’s attack. He assumed a fighting stance with the hilt of his sword at his abdomen and the point aimed directly at Bathory.
Bathory’s ravaged face contorted into what passed for a smile, and Dracula, always the showman, spun his sword about as if he were onstage.
Bathory sighed. She thought about the second stranger. Her mentor. How Bathory wished he could be here to witness Dracula’s demise. “Have you ever wondered, Vlad,” she said, unable to resist the urge to open old wounds, “who it is that hates you more than I?”
A brief look of confusion crossed Dracula’s face. “Whether human or from within our own ranks, how many enemies does one make in a lifetime?”
“All these years, Vlad, haven’t you ever wondered, after you left me to die, who it was that set me on my path of revenge?” Bathory continued. “Who bestowed upon me the dark gift?” Bathory sensed Dracula entering her mind, searching for the identity of her mentor, the one who had made her a vampire. She did not resist. She wanted to destroy Dracula’s confidence and watch his anger consume him. Indeed, she reveled in this moment of truth. “I am not alone in my war against God, but am only one of many. Perhaps you consider yourself brave to stand alone against the coming onslaught. You are an arrogant fool to think you can turn the tide of the world’s fate.”
Dracula snarled. He had captured from her mind the face of her mentor. He knew the mentor’s name all too well. The hate between them was legendary. Fury flashed in his eyes. He shouted to the heavens as he raised the sword high and leapt off the broken boulder to engage her. Bathory raised her sword to meet him. She was shocked by the ferocity of Dracula’s attack. He was driven by pure rage. Their blades clashed with such tremendous force that sparks flew. The crossed metal rang out like the chimes at midnight signaling the end of all things.
Mina could smell human blood. She opened her eyes, and was assaulted by the intense light from an oil lantern. Her eyes were newly sensitive. She could barely make out the silhouette of a man before she was forced to shut her eyes again. Fortunately, the scent of blood was so pungent, so intoxicating, that she was able to find and grasp her first victim with ease, even though she couldn’t see him. Mina drooled with anticipation. Blood is life! She would drink her fill. She opened her mouth wide, her tongue brushing against the tips of her newly formed fangs. She could hear herself growl like a beast as she sensed the rhythm of her victim’s heart, guiding her strike. She drew her head back like a cobra ready to pounce.
“Mother?”
Mina heard the trembling voice. It was barely a whisper, but to Mina’s un-dead ears, it resounded like thunder. She stopped. The voice sounded like that of her son, Quincey. The light from the lantern was still blinding, but she fought the pain and forced her eyes open. Within seconds, her eyes adjusted. She was in awe of what she beheld. Everything seemed to be more vibrant, clearer; she could actually see the heat emanating from the body before her. The shadow gave way to a face she loved. It was Quincey, here at last, alive and safe. But she was denied a joyous reunion. She could see upon his face a look of complete horror. At once, she felt an overwhelming guilt and shame, emotions stronger than she had ever endured before. “Quincey, forgive me.” She felt her fangs retract back into her gums as her mind became more focused. The expression on Quincey’s face was heartbreaking. The need to comfort her son overwhelmed her. Dracula had told her the truth. If she could still feel, if she could still experience love, pain, and guilt, then she still had her soul. She was not a demon.
“My mother is dead,” Quincey said, moving away from her.
“No! That’s what Van Helsing taught. It is not true!” Mina pleaded, her mind racing to try to find the right words. She watched as Quincey flinched at the mention of Van Helsing’s name. She could see the torment in her son’s eyes. She had to make him understand. “Van Helsing was wrong. I am still your mother, Quincey.” She opened her arms to her son, hoping for forgiveness.
Mina saw the energy radiating from her son’s body suddenly change color from a benign white and light blue to a deep, heated red. The expression on his face changed as well. Quincey’s logical mind was overruling his natural emotion.
“No!” Quincey cried. He pushed her away from him. The force was so strong that she fell back into the crate, smashing the side, and collapsed onto the cold, wet stone floor, still weak from her transformation and in great need of blood.
She struggled to pull herself up. Quincey backed farther away, shaking his head in disbelief and pure disgust. Now the energy emanating from him turned black. Mina could see the focus building in his eyes. In his mind, one single thought raged: Kill.
“Quincey, no!” Mina screamed as she stumbled toward him. “Do not even think it!”
He turned away from her and retrieved the broken shovel. His fists gripped the handle of the stake so tightly that the blood from his wounded fingers began to flow again. Mina forced herself to step away from the sweet aroma.
Tears streamed down Quincey’s face. Without another word, he turned and ran away with incredible speed.
“Quincey, wait! It was my choice,” Mina shouted after him. “We did what had to be done to save you from Bathory!”
She stumbled a few more steps and collapsed. She would never be able catch her son in her present state, nor stay his hand from making a deadly mistake. She needed blood for strength. She needed to get to Quincey before he faced Dracula, for she had made him swear that he would not take her son. She knew that Dracula would not betray his word, even in self-defense. But she feared Quincey’s naïveté. In his ignorance, Quincey could align himself with Bathory, hoping to mete out the revenge he so desired against Dracula.
Mina’s newly sharpened senses were overwhelming her mind, hindering her ability to chase after her son. She could smell the decay of the bodies in the tombs, the mold growing on the stone, animal droppings, the dampness of the air, and the sounds of Quincey’s footsteps echoing as they ascended the stairs. She was deafened by the din of small droplets of water exploding into a puddle in the corner. She understood how poor Lucy might have gone mad from this. Lucy had fallen into a coma after Van Helsing’s botched blood transfusion and then had suddenly awoken in her coffin, confused, disoriented, and burning with an inexplicable thirst for blood. She did not have guidance. While fleeing the band of heroes, Dracula couldn’t instruct Lucy in the ways of the vampire. Mina understood why Lucy had feasted from the first victim she found—a child. The thirst was unbearable, but Mina was determined to remain focused. Dracula had prepared her. She was aware of what was happening to her and she knew what she had to do in order to stop Quincey.
She needed blood. This hunger was not just in her stomach, but in every inch of her body. The venom that had transformed her was directly feeding the cells of her body, and the more her cells feasted, the more the venom in her heart waned. The vampire blood was being consumed by her own body. She needed more, before she ate herself alive.
The noise of small rodents scurrying by now rang in her ears. Mina spun her head around as her fangs extended and her eyes went black. She focused on a group of rats. Putting aside her revulsion, she pounced on the rodents, scooping them up with her hands, ripping open their throats with her fangs. The high-pitched screeching hurt her ears. And yet she drank. She had no choice. Blood is life!
CHAPTER LXI.
Dracula’s ferocious attack took Bathory off guard. The power of each thrust pushed her farther back. Each clash of steel caused vibrations to shoot through her entire body. She could barely block each of the
savage blows, and now she found herself retreating backward up the slippery steps of the cliff face with each swing. She had been right in her decision to take her coach and conserve her strength. She would need all of it now. So much the better. She would give all she had to see Dracula defeated.
Dracula, eyes wide, teeth clenched, looked every inch God’s madman as he drove Bathory up the stairs. She gritted her fangs, but she would not let Dracula know the level of agony he was inflicting upon her. The words of her mentor rang through her mind: We learn from pain. This was not the Dracula she’d faced in the Underground. He was stronger. Surely, Mina had helped to heal him. She would take care of her later.
Bathory’s strength declined with each of Dracula’s blows, which only made him bolder. Hacking ever more violently, he forced her up the stairs, but a plan was formulating in her mind. He might be stronger than she for the moment, but he couldn’t keep up his pace for much longer. And she knew she was faster than he.
Dracula unleashed a series of wild attacks. Steel bit steel with such force that Bathory could barely raise her arms to parry the attack. The look of victory upon his face was infuriating. She had no choice but to turn and run up the stairs to the next landing, her sword trailing behind her, appearing weak and ready for the taking. She waited as Dracula advanced slowly upon her, savoring each moment, believing that each step brought him closer to victory. His arrogance was such that he no longer even held his sword before him but let it hang by his side as if she no longer bore any threat.
