The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood

by Shane KP O'Neill

  The abbot’s voice irritated him no end and rang like a gong in his ears. He looked to where the door of the chapel swayed gently in the wind.

  Lucifer read his thoughts and encouraged him to venture outside. “Go on, my son. This is where it all begins.”

  Dracula nodded and headed for the door. As he walked, Lucifer spoke after him. “In five centuries, all who live in the civilised world shall know your name. It shall fall on you as to whether or not they believe in you.”

  The monster had been born.

  WALLACHIA. THE CHAPEL OF

  THE MONASTERY AT SNAGOV.

  DECEMBER 11, 1476. EARLY NIGHT.

  Dracula pulled open the door of the chapel. Relishing his newfound strength, he ripped it clean off its hinges and strode out into the night, to confront the crowd assembled outside. All eyes fell on him, and he glared back at the meek fools he had once considered his people. They were on their knees in the cold and the rain, praying for the repose of his soul.

  He laughed at the irony. The heady aroma their blood-filled, bloated flesh was an assault upon his nostrils. It was a mouth-watering scent, which almost overwhelmed him. He took a moment to savour it, though he fought off the urge to attack those nearby. As the blood pulsed through their veins, he felt the vibration in the ground beneath his feet. With the taste of it fresh in his mouth from Gabrul, he needed more.

  The smell of the blood of the dead from the battlefield in the distance reached him on the breeze. It was a repugnant scent that proved to him only the blood of the living could satisfy his thirst.

  Dracula pondered the thought. “This is the price of my immortality.”

  Lucifer had warned him that he would die if he did not drink the blood of the living. In taking Gabrul, he knew that to drink from the living meant he would have to kill. The kill had thrilled him to his core, and it had not mattered that Gabrul was his closest and most trusted friend. From that moment, he knew the excitement of the kill would ensure he continued to do so, and often. As he cast his eye over the crowd, he did not care how many would have to die to satisfy his needs.

  The women in the entourage gazed at him in awe.

  “The voivode is alive!” one of them cried.

  Several of them rejoiced. “Praise be to God!”

  “He has shed his clothes,” another observed. “His skin is so pale.”

  “And his meat stands long and hard.”

  Dracula shot a stern glance at the woman who had said that. If she had not looked so frail, he would have taken her there and then. Instead, he scanned the crowd for a more robust target. His thirst was strong and would not be so easily satisfied.

  The soldiers in the crowd heard the talk from the women. They saw all this for themselves, and watched him with more concerned eyes.

  “His wounds are gone,” one of the Maglaks said. “Do you all see it? His wounds have healed.”

  They all nodded, knowing something was amiss. When they had brought Dracula here, he was as close to death as a man could be, and bleeding from several parts of his body.

  Dracula heard the cheers from those in the crowd farthest from him. They saw their voivode lived, and they expressed their joy openly. He paid them little heed, his attention on his loyal Maglak warriors. None of them cheered at the sight of him.

  Their hands touched on the hilts of their swords. Though they did not speak, Dracula read their thoughts as clearly as if they had voiced them.

  “He should be dead.”

  “What manner of demon stands in my master’s stead?”

  These thoughts all transmitted to him, angering him. The green pupils of his eyes glowed fierce in the dark, like those of a big cat stalking its prey. Two grotesque fangs hung down over his lower lip, appearing long and sharp and a touch yellowed. His penis continued to stand erect and long. It twitched against the cold, filled with the blood of his recent kill.

  Dracula forgot them then, the thoughts of everyone in the crowd calling out to him. At first, it was a jumble of sounds; a thousand noises in his head. He put his hands to his ears to try and block them out. The cacophony almost overwhelmed him, as much as the initial scent of blood. He had to fight the urge to run away, but he could not leave. The aroma of the blood around him was far too strong to ignore, and he had to have it.

  When he looked into the eyes of any one person their thoughts became images in his mind. He heard the individual voices behind them. Perhaps it is something I can control. He stepped forward toward the crowd, but then an acute scent wafted on the breeze to his nose; fresh blood. He turned his head in its direction, his sharp eyes focusing on a wounded soldier lying a good distance away close to the edge of the frozen lake.

  Dracula walked slowly through the crowd. The marble floor inside the chapel had scorched his feet, so now he found relief from the cold, wet ground. How did Lucifer walk in there if I could not? Perhaps it was not for him to know. He looked beyond the people to the frozen lake, a walk on the ice having appeal for him.

  He stopped in front of the abbot. It amused him to scan the mind of the holy man and hear his silent words. They looked long into each other’s eyes, Dracula seeing the abbot knew him to be a demon. He grinned with malice at the little man, drawing pleasure from the fear he sensed in him. The urge to kill him there and then tugged at his more primitive instincts, but the scent of the soldier’s blood was too strong for him to ignore. It grew stronger on the wind, and he had to have it.

  The people around him gasped when he vanished into thin air before their very eyes. In one bound, he leapt almost a hundred feet, to the spot where the wounded soldier lay. He moved with speed that the naked eye could not match.

  “Where is the voivode?” more than one person asked.

  They looked about in an attempt to locate their master. No one could see him at the base of the slope behind them, on the boundary where the island met the lake. Then, one of the women screamed. The others followed the line of her arm as she pointed to the night sky.

  As one, the crowd looked up in horror. They saw Dracula hovering some twelve feet in the air above them. He had sunk his teeth deep into the soldier’s thigh near to the gaping flesh wound.

  The soldier dangled upside down in Dracula’s arms. His head felt faint as the vampire sucked the blood from his body, the shock of the bite all that kept him conscious. “Help me!” he screamed at his comrades to save him.

  Soldiers who had once fought to defend Dracula, now drew their swords against him. They moved, together, to the area below him, the bolder ones jumping up and swinging for his feet. When they did, they found him just out of their reach. An archer removed an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it to his bow. He took careful aim at the vampire, and fired.

  His voivode plucked the arrow out of the air with his left hand, without as much as a sideways glance. He held onto it while he continued to drink the soldier dry. The bloodless corpse soon dropped to the ground, landing with a thud near a group of the women. They each screamed at the sight of the dead man’s face, and scrambled away on their hands and knees. He looked up at them with terrified eyes that could no longer see, and a face pale as the snow.

  Dracula then turned to glare at the archer, his anger clear for all to see. Penetrating the man’s mind, he felt the lump build in his throat and the numb paralysis in his limbs. Hypnotised by the gaze from the vampire’s luminous green eyes, the archer did not react when the arrow came back at him. The projectile moved with real venom through the air and hit him in the eye before exiting out through the back of his skull.

  A chorus of screams rang out. Dracula hung in the air above the corpse of the soldier he had fed on, and laughed while his people scrambled to get away from him. The urge to get off the small island overrode any other thought in their minds. They fell over each other in a blind panic, as the mass exodus moved to the frozen lake. Men and women alike slipped and lost their footing on the ice, where the surface was slushy from the heavy rain. With the sudden weight on it, cracks b
egan to appear almost at once.

  “Hurry!” someone screamed, as they looked down. “The ice is going to break!”

  “Get off the ice!” another of the men urged.

  With the need to escape the island so strong, few of the people heeded the warning. More and more bodies stepped onto the ice, their fear of Dracula outweighing any other. It was not until they all began to slip and slide on the surface that they began to realise the danger. Many tried to go back, but their efforts were in vain. For them, it was too late. The ice began to splinter and crack all around them. Each new fissure filled the hearts of those on it with terror. Geysers of freezing water shot up into the air. In each spot, the ice depressed and collapsed.

  A thousand screams filled the night. In their dozens, the people fell down into it. Their cries did not last. Each one of them went into shock the moment they took the plunge. Dracula watched as they disappeared from view. The freezing water snuffed out one heartbeat after another, and he felt them succumb to their icy grave.

  The chorus of sounds in his ears faded fast. The loud voices he could hear became whispers. Then, one by one, the icy water silenced them.

  Dracula turned his attention back to the island, where only his loyal Maglak warriors and the monks of the cloth remained. He bared his fangs, knowing of their intent to fight this beast they believed had possessed him. Remaining in the air above them, he circled the large group to erode at their resolve.

  He bellowed at them so loud, each man covered his ears with his hands. “Run my friends! Run while you still can! It is him I want!”

  They turned to see the lone figure of the abbot. The little man shrank further when he heard Dracula speak.

  All alone, on his knees, the abbot looked up at the dark skies. “Lord, have mercy on me, your humble servant. Grant me the strength to face this foul demon. Speak through me and drive this beast away from the eyes of men.”

  Dracula hovered a little closer to him, amused by the prayer the abbot offered to God. “Your God is nowhere to be found here, little man. Darkness has descended on the earth on this day, making your world my domain.”

  The abbot felt his courage return, for when the vampire gazed down at him, he held up a crucifix to ward off his adversary. “Get thee hence, foul demon!” he commanded.

  His voice showed conviction he did not know he had. He rose to his feet and held the crucifix up higher.

  The Maglaks looked at each other, waiting for one of them to make a decision. In the end, they sheathed their swords and ran into the chapel.

  Dracula returned to the ground to face his new enemy. He glared at the abbot who stood firm, the crucifix shaking in his hands. It seemed he might drop it at any time. As the clouds moved in the skies above them, the light of the moon shone against the cold metal. The glare stung Dracula in both eyes, forcing him to shield them with a hand.

  He hissed at the abbot in anger, a long stream of obscenities flowing from his mouth. The crucifix unnerved him and he needed to break the resolve of the little man to force the icon from his hand. It proved to be an object of real power when the one holding it had some measure of faith.

  Stepping back a few paces, his eyes remained trained on the abbot, as those of a hawk waiting to swoop on its prey. Dracula saw his action encouraged the holy man to come forward. He sensed the new-found courage in the heart of his rival, though the underlying fear of him remained.

  The two emotions together clouded the abbot’s logic and he pressed on. He felt sure he had Dracula on the retreat. When a large gap opened between them, he broke into a run and gave chase.

  Dracula stooped down and picked up a large rock, grinning as he hurled it at the oncoming man. It struck the abbot on the right foot, with real force, and crushed every tiny bone below the ankle. The abbot cried out in agony and fell down, the metal cross dropping from his grasp.

  In the blink of an eye, Dracula struck. He grabbed the abbot and dragged him away from the cursed object. The holy icon remained on the ground, no longer of any use to its owner and no longer posing a threat to him.

  “Do you still feel brave, holy man?” Dracula taunted him. “Is your sweet Jesus going to save you?”

  “Get away, you foul beast,” the abbot half shouted and half pled.

  “I think not,” Dracula said, a wide grin etched across his face. “Not before you lie dead on the ground.”

  “In the name of Jesus Christ! Get thee from here!”

  The words seemed to stun the vampire. He released his grip on the abbot and took a few steps back. A brief lull followed, though the abbot groaned at the pain in his foot. Dracula ignored him for a moment and looked about the area. It occurred to him that Jesus might actually intervene to save this man. He knew that because Lucifer existed, then Jesus the Saviour existed too. When the Son of God did not appear, Dracula grabbed hold of the abbot once more.

  “I would say he is not coming to your rescue, holy man. Perhaps he does not even exist. But I do, abbot. I exist, and I am the truth!”

  The abbot cried out when Dracula pressed both palms against his temples. He felt the vampire’s cold breath against his neck, and fear gripped him inside. Is this to be the end?

  “Worry not, holy man, I do not want your blood. It is your life that I want. Your precious Jesus can have your soul.”

  Dracula increased the pressure. He heard the crunch of bone as he crushed the abbot’s skull like an egg. Brain tissue spilled as a mashed pulp between his fingers. It tempted him to eat, but he knew that he could not.

  Through his conversion, he knew certain things. The same way a newborn baby uses its instinct to find the nipple, his told him of his limitations. These had passed to him through the transfusion of Lucifer’s blood. That blood was the essence of all he had become. It gave him immortality and abilities few men could comprehend. The drinking of Lucifer’s blood also brought with it knowledge of many things, both of the underworld and of who and what he now was. In the same way, he could read much from a man’s mind, but he did not possess real knowledge from a mortal until he had drunk their blood. It gave him that, as well as their inner strength and their soul.

  He could not feed from the dead, unless it was his kill. Once the soul had left the body, the flesh soured and the blood turned to poison. The pope had blessed the abbot upon giving him his Holy Orders. Alive or dead, Dracula could not consume any part of him. He could touch no man or woman blessed by the pope’s hand. If he had drunk from the abbot, he would have endured a slow and agonising death. Consecrated blood would be like acid in his veins and would rot him from the inside out. For his protection, it often carried an unpleasant smell.

  Dracula looked off into the distance when he heard the cries of thousands. It urged him to leave the island and glide over the surface of the lake toward the source of these sounds. The bodies of his people remained there, trapped beneath the new thin blanket of ice that had formed.

  The sounds drew him to the battlefield. He stopped in the same place where the Turks had ambushed and wounded him just hours before. The bodies of the dead lay where they had fallen. He trod through them, careful not to touch them with his feet.

  All around, the souls of the dead rose from their broken corpses. Dracula gasped at the sheer spectacle of it. He watched them rise up in the order they had perished. Their images replicated their human form, though they were transparent and he could see the surrounding landscape through them. The souls hung in the air above each corpse, and there they waited. Soon, others would come and claim them.

  Then they came; the White Ones and the Black Ones. There were no secrets when you were dead, and he knew they were the soul collectors from Heaven and Hell. A few of the Black Ones came close, but did not look at him. He held no interest for them.

  He stayed for a time to watch. Those claimed by the Guardians of Hell screamed in desperation. They were aware now of the nightmare that awaited them.

  By coming early, Lucifer had spared Dracula this torment. He would not f
eel the agony of the Black Ones ripping at his flesh with their claws. Nor would he gaze into the fiery Abyss before they dragged him down. It sent a shiver through him to think about it, and he felt glad of the reprieve.

  One of the Guardians of Heaven drew close, which Dracula stepped aside from to avoid. It was here to claim the soul of Ivan Olescu. He observed the absolute joy on the face of his old friend. The stresses of life and the pain of death had all left him now. It was a feeling Dracula knew he would never experience. The White One took Olescu by the hand and rose up towards the heavens. The vampire watched their ascent for a time before his attention returned to the scene on the ground around him. One by one, the souls departed the field with the messengers of either persuasion, leaving their broken bodies behind for the scavengers that gorged themselves on the rich pickings.

  Dracula did not find it a pleasant scene and he knew he had no business here. A whole new world awaited him, one where he would have to find his way, alone. As he contemplated that, a brilliant white light shot down from the heavens to the very spot where the abbot lay.

  The light was so strong that it scrambled Dracula’s senses. He put his hands over his eyes to shield them, but lost his footing and fell down onto his hands and knees. The light generated a heat so intense that it singed his hair and scorched his skin. Fear gripped him at the events unfolding around him. This was no longer a place for him, and he knew he had to get far away.

  The Black Ones that still lingered on the battlefield finished their work and dragged their victims down into the portholes they had emerged through. These closed behind them, leaving no trace that they were ever there. The White Ones remained, holding the hands of those they had come to claim for God. They all turned to the great light before dropping to their knees and bowing their heads.

  Dracula scrambled away on all fours, unable to muster the strength to stand. Yet the further he moved from the light, the stronger his limbs became. Even with his back to the light he was aware of others arriving there close to the abbot’s body. The initial fear he felt suddenly turned to terror, the same as in the moment his first wife prepared to jump to her death from his castle fortress in the Carpathians fourteen years before.