Page 49 of Dracula: Bound in Blood

The ruins of Castle Dracula lay in a crumbled smoking heap, a skeletal remnant of its former grandeur. Amidst the charred rubble and crumbling stone, Dracula stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The cool night air carried the scent of ash and decay, a fitting atmosphere for the desolation that consumed him.

Memories of Jonathan flashed through his mind, each one a bittersweet dagger to his heart. The young man’s laughter echoed in his ears, a phantom sound that only deepened his anguish. Dracula closed his eyes, allowing himself to be swept away by the tide of recollection.

Jonathan’s eyes wide with wonder as he explored the castle library...

The warmth of Jonathan’s body pressed against his as they danced...

The taste of Jonathan’s lips, sweet and intoxicating...

Dracula’s eyes snapped open, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Centuries of existence stretched out behind him, a tapestry of blood and shadow. But now, after the young solicitor’s departure, it all seemed meaningless. What was the point of immortality if it meant an eternity of loneliness?

“You fool,” Dracula muttered to himself, his voice thick with self-loathing. “You had a chance at happiness, and you threw it away.”

He wandered through the ruins, his feet carrying him to what remained of the East Wing. The charred remnants of the Béla look-alikes’ prison mocked him, spitting on his centuries of obsession and misguided love.

“All of it, for nothing,” he whispered, kicking at a piece of debris. “Béla, Jonathan... I’ve lost them both.”

As the night wore on, Dracula’s despair deepened. The long years pressed down upon him, each memory a fresh torment. He had lived through plagues, wars, and revolutions, but nothing had prepared him for the hollow ache that now consumed him.

He suddenly lashed out, his fist connecting with a crumbling wall. Stone cracked and shattered, but the pain in his hand did nothing to alleviate the agony he felt.

“Enough,” he snarled, his voice echoing through the ruins. “Enough of this weakness.”

If he could not have love, if he could not have peace, then he would embrace the darkness that had always threatened to devour him. He sent out a psychic call to his remaining children of the night, summoning them to what remained of the great hall. He would not call Andor or his other vampiric children. There was no need to get them involved in what could essentially be a suicide march. His legacy was his spawn, and they will live on, whatever that meant.

They came in ones and twos, materializing from the shadows like wraiths. Some looked wary, others excited by the unexpected summons. Dracula stood before them, his presence commanding even amidst the ruins.

“My dark children,” he began, his voice low and intense. “For centuries, I have hidden in the shadows, feeding on the fringes of humanity. Content to exist rather than to truly live.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled werewolves, bats and other beasts. “I have misused you, kept your claws dulled and wanting. No more. Tonight, we embrace our true nature. Tonight, we show mankind the power of the children of the night.”

A growling murmur ran through the creatures. They surely understood their master. Dracula could sense their conflicting emotions – fear, excitement, bloodlust. He fed on their energy, letting it fuel his own desperate resolve.

“Van Helsing and his hunters think they have won,” Dracula continued, his voice rising. “They believe they have driven us from our home, broken our spirit. Let us show them how wrong they are!”

As he spoke, Dracula’s form changed. His body grew larger, more monstrous. Leathery wings unfurled from his back, and his face elongated into a bestial snout filled with razor-sharp teeth. The werewolves gasped, some cowering back while others leaned forward, enthralled.

“Follow me,” Dracula roared, his voice now a inhuman growl. “Follow me to glory or to death. Either way, we will burn our monstrous visage in their bloodied skulls!”

With that, he launched himself into the night sky. After hesitating, his children followed, a dark cloud of wings and fangs streaming behind their master.

The village lay sleeping, unaware of the doom that approached. Dracula swooped low over the rooftops, the chorus of heartbeats were like a choir. With a bone-chilling shriek, he gave the signal to attack.

Chaos erupted in an instant. Creatures smashed through windows and tore down doors, their inhuman strength no match for wood and glass. Screams filled the air as villagers were dragged from their beds, their terrified faces illuminated by the pale moonlight.

Dracula himself crashed through the church’s roof, landing amidst a shower of splintered wood and shattered tiles. The priest, awakened by the commotion, stumbled out of his quarters only to be met by the vampyre lord’s nightmarish visage.

“Your god cannot save you now,” Dracula snarled, seizing the man by the throat.

As he prepared to sink his fangs into the priest’s neck, a memory flashed unbidden through his mind – Jonathan’s face, filled with horror at the sight of Dracula feeding. The moment of hesitation was all it took for the priest to fumble for the cross around his neck, pressing it against Dracula’s chest.

But it didn’t have the intended effect. He hurled the priest across the church, the man’s body crumpling against the far wall.

Outside, the battle raged on. The children of the night feasted on terrified villagers, their inhuman strength and speed making quick work of any resistance. But as Dracula emerged from the church, he sensed a shift in the air. The hunters had arrived.

Van Helsing stood at the head of a group of armed men, his face set with a cruel smirk. But there was something different about him, something that made Dracula’s hackles rise. The hunter moved with an unnatural grace, his reflexes far beyond what any human should possess.

“So,” Dracula called out, his voice carrying over the chaos, “you’ve tasted the power of vampyre blood. How does it feel, Van Helsing, to become what you hate?”

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