by Joseph Rubas
CHAPTER EIGHT
Count Dracula paced the dark, quiet decks of the Titanic and focused, frantically casting his mind’s eye out over the black, crashing sea. The Rockford was several days back, a small steamer upon which Dracula had several crates of soil. The Carpathia, The California, and The Olympic, Titanic’s sister ship, were all close by. He could be on one of them shortly, leaving Van Helsing and the others to wonder after him until their nosiness killed them elsewhere.
But he didn’t want that.
He wanted them dead. He didn’t trust himself to do it himself, not in his condition. They had the upper hand though they were probably too stupid to know it. He would have his emissary do it, and only after he had seen their bodies would he depart. The iceberg he had called forth was still out there. If the Titanic hit it and sank anyway, what did he care?
