30. Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

T he 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?”

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 filled with 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.