Page 50 of Dracula: Bound in Blood

Van Helsing’s eyes narrowed. “I use this curse to destroy its source,” he shouted back. “Tonight, Dracula, your reign of terror ends!”

The hunters surged forward, their weapons gleaming in the moonlight. But these were no ordinary stakes and crossbows. The points glowed with an unearthly light, and Dracula could smell the potent mix of holy water and other, more esoteric substances.

The night air filled with howls of pain and snarls of fury. Silver-tipped arrows whistled through the darkness, finding their marks in werewolf flesh. Massive lupine bodies crashed to the ground, fur smoldering where blessed metal pierced hide. Vampyre bats, their wings torn and bloodied, fell from the sky in droves, screeching as holy water burned through leathery skin.

Dracula’s nostrils flared at the acrid stench of burning fur and flesh. His eyes blazed crimson as he watched his lesser creatures fall. Werewolves, once proud and fierce, now whimpered and writhed as silver coursed through their veins. Bat corpses littered the ground, twitching in their death throes.

A gargoyle, its stone skin cracking and crumbling, toppled from its perch with an ear-splitting shriek. The ground trembled as it shattered upon impact, fragments scattering across blood-soaked earth.

Andor materialized beside Dracula, his nostrils flaring at the acrid stench of blood and ash. Bodies lay strewn across the scorched earth, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Andor’s eyes darted from one gruesome sight to another, his jaw clenched tight.

“Father,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “This is madness! Call off your children and flee!”

Andor’s words hung in the air, unheeded. Dracula’s eyes blazed crimson, fixed solely on Van Helsing. With a snarl that shook the very stones, he lunged.

Claws raked flesh. Fangs flashed in the moonlight. Blood spattered stone as the two immortal foes collided. Centuries of hatred exploded in a frenzy of violence. The air crackled, each blow echoing like thunder. Inhuman roars and the sickening crunch of bone filled the night. Dracula’s talons tore strips from Van Helsing’s chest. The hunter’s silver blade sliced deep into vampiric flesh. They grappled, tumbling across jagged rocks, locked in a dance of death.

Van Helsing’s eyes gleamed with righteous fury, his face twisted in a snarl of disgust. Dracula’s features were a mask of inhuman rage, lips peeled back to reveal razor-sharp teeth. They crashed through walls, leaving craters in their wake.

Bones cracked. Skin tore. Neither combatant uttered a sound beyond guttural growls and hisses of pain. The stench of blood and sweat hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of burning flesh where holy water had splashed.

The church’s stained glass windows shattered as Dracula’s roar reverberated through the walls. Shards of colored glass rained down, glinting in the flickering candlelight. Van Helsing stumbled back, his stake leaving a trail of acrid smoke where it had grazed Dracula’s chest. The scent of burning flesh mingled with incense and dust.

Dracula’s eyes blazed crimson, his fangs bared in a snarl. For a split second, the memory of Jonathan’s soft caress ghosted across his skin. That fleeting distraction was all Van Helsing needed. The hunter lunged forward, his stake whistling through the air.

Dracula twisted, narrowly avoiding the killing blow. His claws raked across Van Helsing’s arm, drawing blood. The hunter’s cry of pain echoed off the vaulted ceiling as he stumbled against an ornate wooden pew. Dracula advanced, his form seeming to grow larger, darker, consuming the very light around him.

In a moment of distraction, Van Helsing’s stake found its mark, piercing Dracula’s side. The vampyre lord howled in pain, staggering back. The wound smoked and hissed, the blessed weapon causing far more damage than ordinary wood ever could.

Dracula fell to one knee, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Around him, the battle was winding down. Most of his children had been slain or had fled, leaving only a handful still fighting against the hunters.

Van Helsing approached, another stake raised for the killing blow. “It’s done, you wicked monster,” he said, his voice filledwith both triumph and regret. “Your reign of terror ends here. For Nadia!”

Dracula looked up at his nemesis, his vision blurring from pain and blood loss. In that moment, he saw not Van Helsing but Jonathan—Jonathan, whom he had pushed away, Jonathan, whom he had loved and lost.

“Jonathan,” Dracula whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

As Van Helsing’s stake descended, time seemed to slow. Dracula closed his eyes, ready to embrace the final death that had eluded him for so long. In his mind, he saw Jonathan one last time, smiling at him with love and forgiveness.

Chapter Thirty-One

The London air hung heavy with fog as Jonathan Harker trudged along the cobblestone streets, his shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast. The wound on his stomach had mostly healed, leaving behind a jagged scar that served as a constant reminder of his time in Transylvania. But it was the wounds that couldn’t be seen – the ones that plagued his heart and mind – that refused to heal.

Months had passed since his return, yet Jonathan felt as though he were sleepwalking through his own life. The bustling city that had once filled him with excitement now seemed dull and lifeless. He went through the motions of his daily routine, but histhoughts constantly drifted back to the castle, to Dracula, to the passion and danger he had left behind.

At times, a faint whisper would tickle the edges of his consciousness, a voice so distant and indistinct he couldn’t make out the words. Was it calling his name? Was it Dracula? Or was his mind finally fracturing under the weight of his experiences? Jonathan would shake his head, trying to clear away the phantom sound. He told himself it was nothing more than the lingering effects of his ordeal, a trick of an overactive imagination. Yet the voice persisted, growing neither louder nor clearer, but remaining a constant, nagging presence in the back of his mind. He did his best to ignore it, to focus on the mundane tasks of his London life, but the whisper was always there, a reminder of the otherworldly realm he had left behind.

Lucy Westenra, ever the devoted friend, had taken it upon herself to nurse Jonathan back to health. She fretted over his physical recovery, changing bandages and preparing nourishing meals. But it was his emotional state that worried her most. The Jonathan who had returned from Transylvania was a mere shadow of the vibrant young man she had known.

Lucy gently knocked on the study door frame. “Jonathan? May I come in?”

Jonathan looked up, his eyes hollow. He nodded silently.

Lucy settled into the armchair across from him, smoothing her skirts. “I think it’s time we talked about what happened in Transylvania.”

Jonathan’s shoulders tensed. He opened his mouth to protest, but Lucy held up a hand.

“Please,” she said softly. “Why have you returned so changed. I mean you were always a little melancholy but now I hardly recognize you at all.”

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