Dracula The Un-Dead

by Dacre Stoker

  Come to me. Come and die.

  When Dracula reached the landing upon which Bathory stood, he made no move to strike but simply stood there, looking at her ruined beauty. She watched as the anger seemed to drain from her enemy’s face, leaving only sadness behind. She hated to admit it, but she understood what he was thinking. When he killed her, he would be killing part of himself. They were cut from the same cloth, immortals who led solitary lives. They could have been allies, companions. But, because Bathory had chosen to turn her back on God, Dracula had to turn his back on her. She watched as his expression changed and saw that he now resigned himself to closing the book on their long-standing feud. He had decided it was time to end her life. The fool.

  Dracula raised his sword, poised to remove Bathory’s head in one blow. Always the better one, he would show her the mercy of a painless death.

  At the last second, Bathory put her plan into action. Before the steel of Dracula’s sword sliced into her neck, Bathory used the advantage of her speed. In one swift motion, she bent her knees and curved her spine backward. His blade swiped a hairsbreadth above her nose and not finding the target, forced him forward with its weight and momentum. Now Bathory moved so fast that no human eye would have been able to detect her, trapping Dracula’s sword in the hilt of her weapon, and pushing his blade into the wet earth beside the stone stairs. Bathory pivoted, twisting the sword and exposing Dracula’s chest, then reached into her cloak for the kukri knife. She had him.

  Bathory slammed the curved blade into Dracula’s body, dug deep and sliced from his abdomen upward across his chest. Dracula screamed and fell back, blood spouting, baptizing Bathory. He needed both his hands on the wound to stem the red tide.

  Bathory dropped her sword and raised the curved blade, displaying it for Dracula. “Remember this?”

  The flash of horror that sparked in Dracula’s eyes was all the answer she needed. “Your time has come. Our battle is over, and I am victorious. At last I will rule the world as the superior being that I am. Man will fall at my feet, begging God for help. And just as God turned his back on me in my time of need, he will turn his back on man. God took from me everything that I ever loved, including my children. God’s laws turned my family against me. God’s laws made my husband torture me. God’s laws made my own people shun me. Well, I spit on God and his laws. And I spit on you, God’s champion. You came to my aid, yes, but when I could not change what I was and sought my just revenge, you tried to kill me. Did I not deserve revenge? Well, I have it now. God has no place in the world I will create.”

  Quincey P. Morris’s blade was mere metal, but the memories connected to it were powerful. Bathory turned it, allowing him a clear view of the very same weapon she had used in Transylvania. He stared as if entranced. Once again, Dracula had misjudged his opponent’s cunning.

  “This time, the Texan’s blade will finish the job,” Bathory purred.

  Dracula retreated, clutching his wound. It was not only the fear of Bathory that drove him back. There was something else. His eyes were looking beyond Bathory, at something behind her.

  She turned. Dawn was approaching. Time was running out for both of them.

  A high-pitched cry now pierced Bathory’s eardrums. She turned back to find her enemy racing toward her. His shoulder hit her square in the chest, throwing her back against the stone stairs. Dracula took up Bathory’s dropped sword, launched himself into the air over her head, blood from his wound spraying her as he soared past. His boot heels thudded on the stairs above her and he chopped down in an attempt to cleave her head in two.

  Has he learned nothing? Bathory rolled her head to the side as Dracula’s blade embedded itself in the stone step. The steel cracked when it hit the stone, for the battle’s many blows had weakened the blade. She lunged for Dracula’s sword, still buried in the earth, and Dracula wrenched Bathory’s sword from the stone in the same moment in which Bathory drew the other blade from the earth. They had exchanged weapons. Raising the sword before her, Bathory turned to run at Dracula, knowing victory was near at hand.

  Dracula’s eyes had become those of a reptile, his skin an ashen green, his ears pointed. His mouth widened, filled to overflowing by gory fangs protruding outward in a hideous snout. His face became thus when he wanted to instill fear in his mortal enemies and when he was in danger. But it would have no effect on Bathory. There was nothing mortal left in her.

  Bathory lashed at the creature, driving Dracula back with the ferocity and speed of her attack. As she drove him up to the summit, the rock face receded, exposing his back to the rising sun. The sun’s rays would hit Dracula first. Bathory intended to stand in his shadow, protecting herself from the sun’s fire. Tonight, she would rise, and God’s champion would fall.

  Bathory felt Dracula weaken more and more with each blow of her sword. He was backing up the stairs, his blood draining from the wound she had inflicted. The sun began to beat on his back. Bathory’s sword struck his blade, again and again, faster and faster. Only a few more blows and she would render him defenseless: Then she would strike through his heart.

  Mina stumbled through the winding corridors of the darkened abbey. Despite the darkness, she could see clearly. No longer a creature of light, she had become a nocturnal predator.

  Her body was in turmoil. She was alternately fighting pangs of hunger and bouts of nausea. Suddenly dizzy, Mina fell against the cold wall, unable to stand. She felt a wrenching in her chest and vomited blood. Was her body rejecting the blood of the rats? Perhaps, as a new vampire, only human blood would suffice.

  All around her was the sound of the storm, but there was another sound as well. It was far in the distance, but Mina could hear it clearly. She recognized it as the sound of rain and wind on wood. The outer door! It had to be. Mina ran, the new sound guiding her, threading her way through the catacombs. She could smell the damp, the smoke from distant candles, even the decaying rats she had left behind. She could smell Quincey. Her son had come this way. At last she understood what Dracula had meant when he had said that vampires existed on a higher plane than mortals. Even though she was weak and fragile, she was much more than a human being. Though, in her fear for Quincey’s life, she was still all too human.

  Led by scent and sound, Mina found the large wooden doors at the front of the abbey. She swung them open and was overwhelmed with fright and pain so strong that it forced her back into the shadows. The sun! It was rising into the sky. Her instincts told her to retreat back into the darkness and hide from the light, but her need to save Quincey forced her out again. The sun’s rays were like a million needles puncturing her skin. It was painful, but bearable.

  Mina ran blindly across the field until her eyes finally adjusted. She felt weak again, and the nausea returned. She stumbled and fell to the ground. When she looked up, she saw Quincey standing amidst the graves and heard what sounded like the clanging of swords. Her eyes burned in the light, forcing her to squint. She looked to where Quincey was gazing.

  Two figures silhouetted in the light were battling on the stone stairs, crossing swords. Mina knew it was Dracula and Bathory. She could sense that Quincey was choosing his next move, whether or not to intervene. She scrambled to her feet. She had to reach Quincey before he made a move.

  Quincey stood there, transfixed by the battle going on in front of him. Dracula was in retreat. The skeletal creature that attacked him was lightning fast, relentlessly driving him toward the summit of the cliff, into the slowly rising sun. It was all there for Quincey to take. All he needed was the courage. But he could not move.

  The charred creature fighting his mortal enemy had to be the countess that Van Helsing had warned him of, Jack the Ripper herself. If he charged in now to join her, with Dracula on the retreat, he could attain victory. Instinct told him to be wary; but reason said: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  Bathory hissed through her lipless mouth. Centuries of obsession had driven her to this moment. Victory was at hand. She beat
at Dracula’s sword, feeling her foe losing strength with each moment as the sun rose in the sky. His breathing was becoming labored; blood was pouring from his wound. Now was the time to strike hard. Bathory dug deep within herself and called upon all the memories of pain and suffering she had endured in her long life. As they came to the final steps at the summit of the cliff, she used her fury to ignite the last of her strength and land one final blow.

  The cracked steel in Dracula’s sword finally gave way, Bathory’s final stroke shattering his blade and sending him to the ground. Her remaining eye bulged with the anticipation of the kill. She felt Dracula’s fear. If she’d had the time, she would have wept bloody tears of joy. With the kukri knife still in her left hand, Bathory raised her sword with her right, over her head, holding it as she would a spear, and drove it down toward her enemy’s heart.

  Dracula was caught without room to maneuver. His death was sure. In mid-strike, Bathory saw the creature’s expression turn from one of fear to a twisted smile. With her blade only inches from his heart, he reached out and clasped the double-edged sword in his fist, slowing the deadly thrust. The razor-sharp blades sliced his fingers from his hand, the digits spinning through the air as he shoved Bathory’s blade aside.

  Sparks erupted as the sword embedded itself in the stone of the final step, missing Dracula completely. Bathory’s momentum sent her falling forward toward her mortal enemy. In that moment, Dracula dug in his heel and, with his other hand, plunged his broken sword into Bathory’s belly. The splintered blade tore through charred flesh and exploded out of her back, the hilt halting her fall.

  Bathory had gambled and lost. Where was her justice? This was not the way it was supposed to happen. All her schemes, all her machinations, all her plans were just ashes blowing on the winds of time. Through the unimaginable pain, she was forced to gaze upon the smiling face of Dracula, now transformed back to human appearance. She had been played by the master. He had looked into her soul and understood her rage, her arrogance. Most of all, he had understood her obsession. It was not by chance that Dracula had picked up her cracked sword, nor was it anything more than a ruse when he had feigned fear. Dracula had played his part like the actor he was. She had forgotten her mentor’s golden rule of combat: Never underestimate your opponent.

  Dracula withdrew the sheared blade from Bathory’s belly and tossed the sword aside. He looked down on her with no gloating or happiness. “Once the gauntlet has been thrown, no knight of God who is true can lose in single combat to one who is false.”

  The name of God filled her with fury. With a cry from the depth of her hellish soul, Bathory forced herself upright and, with the kukri knife in her free hand, slashed at Dracula’s throat. Blood erupted like a geyser. Forgetting her own unbearable pain and loss of blood, Bathory exploded into uncontrollable laughter. The look of shock on Dracula’s face as he raised his fingerless hand to his neck to stem the blood was just too precious.

  Dracula’s face contorted with rage. He balled his intact right hand into a mighty fist, which he slammed deep into Bathory’s belly. She heard the sickening sound of her charred flesh crunch, crackle, and tear. She could feel his fist inside her body ripping upward, smashing organs as he reached between her ribs.

  “God loved you,” he growled. “You chose to kill because you would not accept His love. You are responsible for your own crimes.”

  Dracula’s hand closed around her heart. And squeezed. Then he wrenched his arm from her body. Bathory stared at her own still-beating black heart clenched in his fist.

  Howling a death wail, she plunged the kukri knife into Dracula’s chest. She knew she did not have enough strength left to drive the knife home through his heart. But the loss of blood from the wounds she inflicted and the rising sun at his back would surely finish him. Their duel was a draw. They had both won and they had both lost.

  With her last breath, refusing to die at Dracula’s feet, Bathory pushed herself away, and the weight of her body sent her falling back down the stone steps. She heard her bones breaking the entire way down, but she felt no pain. Dracula would soon be dead, and though she would not help to lead it, her murder of God’s champion would clear the way for a new world order. As she died, her last thought was that Countess Elizabeth Bathory—reviled, abused, discounted, and terrorized—had risen from her own death and become the implement that would lead to the destruction of the world: a befitting epitaph for one on whom God had turned His back.

  Quincey watched Bathory fall, leaving Dracula alone with the curved knife still protruding from his chest. In a few more moments, the sun’s rays would be directly upon him.

  Quincey clenched his fist tightly around the broken shovel in his hand. It was time for him to act. Dracula must die. He started forward.

  “Quincey, wait!” Mina shrieked from somewhere behind him.

  The sound of his mother’s voice only served to fuel his bloodlust. Quincey ran on. It was time to bring justice to the man who had brought ruin upon his family. “Dracula! Face me!”

  CHAPTER LXII.

  The sun was not yet high in the sky, and Mina’s skin was already burning. Her mind told her body to get up and stop Quincey, but her body was slow to respond. Using the headstones of the graveyard for support, she dragged herself forward. The lack of fresh blood was making her weak. In desperation, she cried out, “Quincey! Stop! Wait!”

  Quincey unleashed a war cry and raised the broken tip of the shovel over his head. He ran at Dracula with unnatural speed. But Dracula did not turn to face him. Puzzled, Quincey stopped. There was no honor in stabbing his mortal enemy in the back.

  Honor be damned, this was life and death! He drew back his arm and steadied the shovel to strike. A searing pain, like a nail driven through his skull, stayed his hand. He heard a voice in his mind: Can you really kill me, Quincey? I whom you loved?

  Quincey was frozen, wrestling with the thoughts in his head. It was as if he no longer had control over his own brain or body. Clouds converged, blotting out the rising sun. He understood now why his enemy hadn’t turned to face him: Dracula was concentrating his powers on the skies and on Quincey’s brain. Only now did Dracula turn to face him.

  In his zeal to destroy his enemy, Quincey had not anticipated the fact that when he looked upon Dracula, he would also gaze upon the face of Basarab. With his throat and abdomen slit, his fingerless hand a bloody stump, and his chest bleeding from the kukri knife, the vampire looked so weak and frail that Quincey was suddenly pierced by compassion. Not compassion for Dracula, who had murdered his father and violated his mother, but compassion for Basarab.

  “It is you. Van Helsing told me . . . and yet I hoped beyond all hope . . .” No longer able to withstand the wrestling match in his head, Quincey reluctantly let the shovel fall from his grasp. He stepped back, defeated. “I can’t do it.”

  The voice in his head grew louder, more confident. Dracula or Basarab . . . I am still the man who loves you.

  Dracula’s pain was intense, but he gritted his teeth and forced out the words: “I was sorry to deceive you, but Bathory had to think I was dead. I became Basarab so that I could hide in plain sight.”

  Images exploded in Quincey’s mind, showing him the truth, or a version of it. Bathory, the countess, was the real villain. And Dracula’s actions, for better or for worse, had had one purpose: to protect Quincey and his mother. He did not know what to believe. Were the images in his head real? Had Dracula been his ally all along? The realization that Basarab had lied to him spurred him to rage: “I loved you. Trusted you! You used and betrayed me!”

  The sun fell full upon the dark prince now. Dracula’s skin began to dry and shrivel. His bones rose like the peaks of sand dunes beneath his flesh. As he decayed, his powers grew weaker. The clouds began to melt away.

  “Ask yourself why you cannot kill me,” he wheezed. “You are what I am. You cannot kill me without killing yourself.”

  Quincey shook his head against the thought. It did not m
atter if Bathory was a villain or not. If Dracula’s evil had not come to England, if he had not invaded Quincey’s family like a cancer, Bathory would never have come. Whether it was Dracula who had struck his father down or Bathory who had impaled him so grotesquely, it did not matter. It was Dracula who had started this.

  It was no longer the Basarab he loved who stood before Quincey, but a living corpse, evil to the core. Quincey was free at last of any confusion in his mind. He grabbed Dracula by the cloak and drew him in so that they would be eye to eye, with only the length of the embedded kukri knife between them. “You murdered my father!”

  He had expected a fight. Instead, Dracula smiled at him. Flakes of burned flesh fell away from the upturned corners of his mouth. “Quincey, you are not a fool,” he said calmly and earnestly. “Do you not yet see the truth? I did not murder the man you knew as your father, Quincey. I am your father.”

  The shock was immense. Quincey released Dracula, and the vampire fell back against the stairs. Then he lunged forward, placing both hands on the hilt of the kukri knife. “You lie!”

  Dracula offered no resistance. He spread his arms, offering Quincey control over the kukri knife in his chest, and free reign over his life or death. “Do it, if you dare,” he challenged.

  This final show of power must have drained all of Dracula’s remaining strength, for now the clouds parted and the sun’s rays fell directly upon him.

  The moment that Van Helsing had warned Quincey of had arrived. Was he still a weakling child, or was he a man with the wisdom and strength to do what had to be done? He stared at the man he had always thought of as his enemy; the man now claimed to be his father. Steam seeped from under Dracula’s clothes and the exposed flesh of his limbs. Quincey vacillated. Should he drive the kukri knife to its hilt, he would become a murderer like the demon before him. Was that what God intended for him?