by Joseph Rubas
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Art!”
The voice (it was a familiar voice) came from far away: it was muffled and distorted, like words spoken underwater.
“Art!”
The ship trembled, and Art started, his heart blasting into his throat. His head cleared, and he realized that it was only Van Helsing, gripping his shoulder and shaking.
“Arthur! Are you alright?”
Art shook his head, caught his run away breath, and nodded. “Yes.” His voice was small, winded. Before him, Dracula lay like an offering to a dark god, his head shattered and his black ichor splashing the walls, the floor, everything.
“He’s dead,” Art muttered. Instead of the blooming joy and triumph he expected, he felt…nothing. It was as though he had done nothing more than take out a bag of trash.
“Yes, Art; he is!” Van Helsing sounded quite happy, and Art smiled despite himself. “We have done it!”
“You sound as if you doubted we would.” Art got shakily to his feet, and stumbled on the slanted floor. Through the open entrance behind him, shouts, low mummers, and music drifted in. “Where is Murdoch?”
“I think he ran away,” Van Helsing said. “Dracula no longer has a hold on him. He is free.”
“That’s good for him,” Seward said, rolling his neck. “I took quite a hit to the head when Dracula knocked me down. I think I need a drink.”
Van Helsing laughed and clapped the younger man on the back. “Yes, yes. I’m sure the smoking room is still up and running. Come.”
Van Helsing was so happy that, for a moment anyway, he could forget the ever growing list, the mounting panic, and the specter of Death looming over them. Dracula was dead, and for the moment...that was all that mattered.