by Dacre Stoker
“Do not look at him! Strike now!”
It was too late. The creature’s eyelids sprang open. Two black, glowing orbs, empty of all but evil, stared up at Quincey Morris and Jonathan. The two champions were frozen. On the battlement, Mina saw herself regain her senses. She understood what had happened; her dark prince’s attention had shifted from her to the now-hypnotized men.
Mina watched Van Helsing pluck up his rifle and run toward the crate, motioning for Jack and Arthur to join him. Arthur continued to fire in an attempt to keep the gypsies off his paralyzed friends. A single gypsy slipped through the barrage, and suddenly a blade erupted through Quincey’s chest as the gypsy stabbed him in the back.
His friend’s scream broke the hypnotic spell ensnaring Jonathan. “Quincey!” Jonathan turned to see the gypsy coldly yank the sword from Morris’s back. Quincey Morris grabbed the side of the coffin for support as his blood streamed out. The gypsy raised his sword high, swinging at Jonathan’s head. From above, Mina could hear the whirr of steal cutting through the air. Jonathan raised his sword to block the killing blow. The force of the gypsy’s blade impacting against Jonathan’s sword sent him crashing to the ground. Mina heard her younger self scream out, “Jonathan!”
Arthur, Jack, and Van Helsing all fired as one, all three bullets finding their mark. The gypsy was blown off the cart, saving Jonathan’s life.
Mina saw Jonathan’s and her younger self ’s eyes meet.
Van Helsing shouted over the gunfire to Jonathan, “Finish it, man. The sun is setting!”
The sun was almost at the horizon line, its bright orange glare blinding. Steam rose from the coffin as the creature within began to burn from the rays of the setting sun.
Jonathan’s face was pained as Mina, confused and panicked, turned from her husband to the smoking coffin.
Quincey Morris, stained with his own blood, fell forward to plunge his kukri knife into the creature’s chest. Mina screamed as the creature unleashed an unearthly howl.
His mighty strength sapped, Quincey Morris collapsed. The creature’s blistered hand shoved him back. The Texan flew through the air, landing hard in the snow. Growling in pain, the creature forced itself onto its feet. Dark blood poured from his wound. The sun’s deadly rays fell directly upon Dracula. Flames erupted from his body as he reached out a hand to Mina.
“Mina! Help me, my love!”
Jonathan looked to his wife. Mina looked from her dark prince to her loving husband. A choice had to be made. Jonathan’s fury grew at her hesitation. He grabbed his sword and climbed onto the cart. The burning creature’s soulless black eyes met his mad glare.
“Goddamn you to hell, Prince Dracula!”
Jonathan swung his sword, attempting to slice off the creature’s head. Not strong enough, the blade lodged in the creature’s neck. Dracula lashed out, his flaming fist searing Jonathan’s face, sending him flying backward.
The vampire yanked the sword from his neck. Blood flowed like a waterfall. Flames engulfed his body as he fell to his knees, howling and thrashing in agony.
Jonathan picked himself up, unsheathed his bowie knife and ran forward, determined to finish this battle. In the same instant, Mina saw one of the wounded gypsies spring forward, a gun aimed at her husband.
Mina watched her younger self make a devastating choice. Two moments more and the sun would have set behind the Carpathian Mountains, and her prince would be saved. But, if she allowed those moments to pass, the man who had risked his life for her, her beloved husband, would be shot dead. Mina made the only choice she could, the choice that would haunt her for the rest of her life. She took up a fallen pistol, cocked it, and fired, hitting the wounded gypsy dead between the eyes.
Again, Jonathan raised his bowie knife. This time he would cut off the burning creature’s head. But he never got the chance. The creature had seen Mina choose to save his rival instead of doing his bidding. It was more than he could bear. Jonathan stepped back in fear as the vampire wailed in anguish, charred flesh peeling away from his bones. Dracula was not bemoaning his demise but the betrayal of his beloved Mina.
The creature fell back as flames consumed him. His body caved in on itself. Then, with the kukri knife planted in his chest, he imploded into burning embers of ash.
It was over.
Mina watched the scene below, frozen. She found herself looking down at the coffin. Unsure if the emotion was her own, she felt anger, a bitter fury rise within her. From the ash, a thin white mist snaked its way around the debris and into the castle gate. Now Mina answered with a voice that was not her own, “Not this time.”
In an instant, Mina was uncontrollably whisked through stone castle walls, past wood-paneled walls adorned with paintings, her view blurred by the velocity of her passing. She sped down a winding stairwell. Somehow her body seemed to know exactly where it was going. She heard the wind and felt its blast. The cold returned. She was outside in the snow.
Mina came to a jerking stop that left her queasy. She stood in the crumbling remains of a desecrated chapel. The ceiling had long ago collapsed, and the wood pews had rotted from centuries of neglect and weathering. The statue of Christ that had once hung over the altar had broken away and lay smashed on the stone floor.
She focused on the base of the altar. The white mist gathered there pooled and reconstituted. Mina watched in amazement as a body took shape. Dracula. He was charred black from the sun’s fire, his throat was slit, his chest was still pierced by the kukri knife. His blood continued to pour. Yet somehow, he lived, screaming and writhing in torturous pain.
Dracula was alive. She marveled at her dark prince’s tactical genius. He had made the band of heroes into a band of fools.
The creature’s skeletal hands grasped the hilt of the kukri knife and attempted to extricate it from his chest. Mina wanted to run to help him, but whatever force was controlling her body allowed her only to calmly walk forward. She heard her boot heels click on the stone floor. With the moon now glowing behind her, Mina’s shadow fell over her prince. Dracula sensed her presence. The sunken eyes in his charred, skull-like head turned to her as he reached out with a pleading hand.
“Sânge!”
Although Mina had never spoken Romanian, she knew he was asking for her blood. She heard herself laugh, a mocking, victorious peal. She watched as her long, black leather boot settled on the hilt of the kukri knife.
The creature’s eyes flashed with rage. Mina heard herself speak, in a voice and tongue that was not hers. “You claim the moral high ground, yet you spurn me as an adulterous whore.”
Mina’s mind reeled. What was she saying?
She heard her voice bark out a guttural growl, “Sacrilege!”
Her boot pressed down harder. This time, the choice was being made for her. Mina wanted to scream, but instead a sound of joy passed her lips.
The creature roared in agony. His head fell back, eyes blank. A last gasp crossed the lips she had once kissed, and a moment later her beloved was truly dead. She was never again to be burdened with the dreadful choice.
For so many years, Mina had yearned to know the truth—she had seen him crumble to dust, but without seeing the body, there had always been a question in her mind. In some ways it had been better not to know. In not knowing, there had at least been the hope that he might have survived.
In one swift movement, Mina watched a black-gloved hand, adorned with a red ruby ring, grab the kukri knife’s ivory handle. With great delight, the hand ripped the blade from the dead creature’s corpse.
The blacked-gloved fingers wiped the knife on her right sleeve. For an instant, Mina saw a reflection in its steel. It was not her own face looking back at her, but the face of a stranger. And then she realized that the stranger’s locks were a luscious raven black. Her eyes were ice blue and heartless, void of emotion. Her body vibrated with delight over the fresh kill, and the scent of the warm blood.
Mina was repulsed, but she felt every muscle in her body clench
with rapture as a wave of frenzy cascaded over her.
She opened her eyes again and was shocked to find she was back in her Exeter home, in her drawing room chair. Her body was still vibrating, not in victory, but with rapture. The many hands were under her gown, caressing every inch of her skin at once. Her body convulsed in spastic waves and now she climaxed so violently that she screamed from the almost unbearable pleasure. Her orgasm was so powerful that it sent the framed photo of Jonathan, which she had been clasping to her chest, flying across the room, where it smashed against the bookcase. At last she lay back in overwhelming delight, heaving for breath. A smile curled her lips. In her heart she felt guilt, but her body felt unparalleled fulfillment. She had been right from the beginning; there was only one who could make her feel this way. Was he a ghost now? His name was about to cross her lips, when Mina was suddenly assaulted by the stench of the grave.
A crimson mist flowed out from under the bodice of her dress. It billowed upward and took the ghostly form of a woman. As the amorphous mist’s features became more defined, Mina recognized the figure as the beauty she had seen reflected in the kukri knife’s blade. This was the woman who had killed her prince. Mina felt sick.
She moved to escape her misty rapist, but her attacker forced her back down into the armchair, straddling her. Then she leaned forward, covering Mina’s mouth with her own. As she forced her tongue into Mina’s mouth, she ran it over her fangs, slicing it open. Blood dripped into Mina’s mouth.
Mina screamed and spat and tried to turn her head, but the woman forced her lips apart, pulling Mina’s tongue inside her mouth. Mina struggled as she felt the sting of the fangs and her mind filled with horrific, inexplicable visions. Young women hung upside down, stripped naked, their throats sliced open, their blood raining down in a shower of gore.
The woman pulled away, smiling. Her familiar voice broke the silence. “All that is left of your lover, your dark prince, is a weak shadow of his former self. You are alone. Your time has come, my sweet.”
With that, she dissolved back into a red mist and left the house.
Mina fell from the armchair, clutching the small gold cross around her neck. Weak-kneed and trembling, she crawled to the bookshelf, where she found a bottle of whisky that had fallen to the floor but miraculously not broken. She ripped out the cork and desperately rinsed out her mouth with the burning liquid, moaning in pain as the alcohol found her wounded tongue. She coughed, whisky drooling from her mouth, and tried to gain control of herself. A scramble of memories that were not her own filled her mind. Mina and her attacker had shared blood; and now she realized that this she-monster’s thoughts, her desires, her hatred, and her depravity were also hers. Her attacker had always been a hidden part of this terrible story. Her attacker was the killer of Dracula. Her attacker was the beast hunting the band of heroes down, murdering them one by one. Her attacker was Countess Elizabeth Bathory.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Quincey stood on the vast, barren dock. A low-lying fog shrouded the water of the English Channel, but he could hear the waves gently lap against the wooden pilings. The peaceful setting belied his internal bitterness. He stamped his feet, hoping the friction would thaw his frigid toes. His coat, still damp from the earlier rain, did nothing to warm his body. Neither did his swirling, angry thoughts do anything to warm his soul.
Only a week before, his path had been clear and certain. He’d followed his heart. He had decided to become an actor and a producer, casting aside the wishes of his father once and for all. Yet now, his father murdered, his mother a liar, Quincey could focus on only one thing. Revenge. Quincey needed to seek out the beast that had taken his father and, with his own hand, destroy him. He stood at a crossroads of destiny. His dreams would have to wait.
He checked his watch; the schooner was late. He peered out to sea, knowing that he had to reach a decision by the time the ship arrived. He couldn’t see anything through the ominous fog hugging the water’s surface. Even the solitary beacon of light from the lighthouse couldn’t penetrate the mist. Basarab had chartered a schooner to bring him to England under the cover of night, where no throngs of adoring fans or press would know he had arrived. The docks were void of all pedestrian traffic. Even the harbormaster had retired for the evening. Quincey stood alone.
He looked over his shoulder at the intimidating white cliffs of Dover, looming above the fog, moonlight reflecting eerily upon their chalk-scarred surface. The low gong of a ship’s bell moaned across the water. The thick fog began to churn apart. Basarab’s ship was approaching.
Quincey could see no movement in the mainmast’s crow’s nest. He strained, looking for any sign of life, but like himself, the ship seemed abandoned and adrift.
As the looming ship drew steadily closer, its silhouette became more clearly visible. Quincey couldn’t help but think of Stoker’s description of the Demeter, upon which Dracula had stowed away on his journey from Transylvania to England. Dracula had also wanted to keep his arrival in England a secret. The devil had then systematically killed everyone on board until only the captain remained. That pour soul had been found tied to the steering wheel on the bridge, clutching a rosary. Stoker described the gruesome discovery of the Demeter crashed aground on the rocky shores of Whitby, with a dead dog nearby. “Its throat was torn away, and its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw.”
Basarab’s ship showed no sign of slowing down. Quincey still could not see any human movement on the top deck.
Thud.
Quincey spun at the hollow sound of something on the dock behind him. He could see nothing in the darkness and remembered the last words his mother called out to him: Leave the truth dead and buried, or you could suffer a fate worse than your father’s. An icy thought came to him. He’d read of tyrants who, throughout history, had killed not only their opponents but also their opponents’ children, so they would not be able to grow up and exact revenge. Quincey knew that the creature that killed his father was just that sort of tyrant. Here he was, alone on this empty dock, with no good route of escape. The fog seemed to close in all around him. Did Stoker not write that the un-dead could take the forms of mist and fog?
Thud.
Quincey had the urge to run. He backed away from the edge of the dock, the pace of his feet quickening to match the beating of his heart.
A flame ignited off the shore of the water.
Thud.
A life buoy that had come loose was knocking against the dock. Quincey breathed a sigh of relief. He was out of immediate danger, but somehow he was not really comforted.
When he looked back at the ship, it was to see a solitary figure standing on the top deck of the schooner, holding a lantern aloft. He was a fool to think he stood a chance of battling a beast such as Dracula. If the mortal man was capable of such horrible carnage, the idea that this devil now possessed the powers of the un-dead made him surely invincible. Quincey had no idea if the methods of killing a vampire that Stoker described were efficacious. Like his father before him, Quincey had no experience of warfare. What his father had had were capable men at his side. Quincey did not.
But if his mother’s words were true, Quincey couldn’t simply run from the fight, either, for wherever he went, he knew that Dracula would find him.
A boatswain’s whistle interrupted his thoughts. The schooner slowed and angled toward the dock. Quincey could see the familiar form of the well-tailored Basarab standing on the approaching bow. A bitter question leapt into his mind. What was he to tell Basarab? His mentor had traveled all this way at great expense on Quincey’s behalf. What explanation could he give for his sudden decision to abandon the production? He couldn’t possibly tell Basarab the truth. Basarab held the historic prince in high esteem—and would not accept that he was now an un-dead monster. For the first time, Quincey completely understood Shakespeare’s Hamlet, a man facing two opposing paths of destiny. If he’d had the misfortune to play Hamlet before this day, he would have played him as an
indecisive jellyfish; but given the opportunity in the future, Quincey knew he would play Hamlet weary with the weight of the world on his shoulders, brought to the brink of madness by the magnitude of the decision before him. He was utterly unsure of his next move.
There came the sound of grinding chains as the gangplank was lowered to the dock. The tall, dark figure of Basarab emerged from the mist, haloed by the moon. What a magnificent figure he struck, like a king parading through his court.
Quincey was out of time. He needed to make his next move. “Mr. Basarab, welcome to England,” he said, extending his hand as the actor came down the gangplank.
“I received your telegram,” Basarab said, his voice compassionate. “With the death of your father, I want you to feel no guilt whatsoever if you choose not to continue with the play.”
Once again it was as if Basarab had read Quincey’s mind. He was touched by the great actor’s gesture. Perhaps he was not alone after all. Basarab was a man worthy of his trust. Perhaps he was the only person Quincey could count on.
The crewmen hoisted Basarab’s luggage out of the cargo hold.
“I have been giving this matter a great deal of thought,” Quincey said at last, which was a bit of an understatement. “I will be honest with you; I’m not sure what to do.”
“What does your heart tell you?”
Being back in Basarab’s presence put Quincey at ease. He could sense the actor’s meaning; he was offering himself as an ally, no matter which path Quincey chose.
Quincey was not a warrior. He had no home. He could not run. He could not hide. But with Basarab by his side, perhaps he could become the warrior he needed to be. Basarab was strong, and brave. Quincey had already seen Basarab quickly take up arms when he was attacked at the theatre in Paris. Quincey made his decision. He would continue with the plans for the play, and use the time he had with Basarab to convince him of the evil of Dracula the Un-Dead. Then, with Basarab by his side, he would rise up and fight. In the meantime, he needed Basarab, and he needed time to make Basarab more than a mentor—but a fellow soldier in his fight.