Dracula Lives (29 page)

Fight or flight.

He had grave doubts about the power of his weapons to stop the Wolf Man, but he had to trust them. They were all he had. Heart pounding, he released the breath he had been holding and stepped into the porte-cochère.

Another series of dissolves began and Markov quickly became the Wolf Man again. He rose up on his hind legs and took a step toward Quinn, then another, until the beast towered over his prey, blocking the steps that led to the front door.

Quinn threw the bracelet. It bounced off. A growl rumbled in the werewolf’s throat, much louder and angrier than before. The beast picked up the bracelet and studied it for a few seconds before flinging it aside.

The werewolf leaned down until its face was only inches from his. Quinn was about to shoot pepper spray into the inhuman yellow eyes when the sound of the front door opening seized both men’s attention. The groan of the hinges sounded like Dracula’s death moan when Van Helsing drives the stake into his heart.

Johnny stepped into the doorway, holding the spear gun. She shouted a taunt down to Markov. “Who’s the impaler now?”

Rage contorted the Wolf Man’s face as he drew himself up to his full height. He looked from Johnny to Quinn, clearly trying to decide how to deal with them both.

The Wolf Man began turning into Dracula.

In the seconds it took for the change to take place, Quinn’s mind raced to make the adjustment from fighting a werewolf to fighting a vampire, going through a lightning quick inventory of the supernatural powers ascribed to vampires: they could transform themselves into werewolves, and back into vampires; they could become bats; turn into fog, even control the weather. But Quinn couldn’t be sure about any of it. The Dracula legend was mythology created by writers and filmmakers. And the vampire’s powers varied from book to book and movie to movie.

The Vlad Dracula that had inspired Stoker was a 15th-century ruler. Prince of a region that included Transylvania. Vlad Dracula—Vlad the Impaler—had been bloodthirsty in the extreme, but he was not a vampire.
Or was he?

Markov believed that he was. He claimed to have preserved Dracula’s severed head and his vampiric bloodline. Even claimed that he might be on the verge of bringing him back to life.

Was that what was happening now?

As Quinn watched the last traces of the Wolf Man disappear, he was certain about only one thing:

The magnetic bracelet had bounced off the wolf. Which meant the creature was a physical reality, not a digital illusion. And now Markov’s version of Dracula stood before him—the hideous version from
The Blood of Dracula
.

“Come!” Johnny shouted down at him, brandishing the spear gun. “Take your chances against me!”

Dracula looked up at her. A sinister grin formed on the vampire’s lips as he pushed a button on the control panel at his waist. He turned his gaze to Quinn. “I’ll leave
you
to take
your
chances against the creature that once fought King Kong.”

The pterodactyl landed just beyond the end of the porte-cochère. One deliberate, lurching step at a time, the creature began circling the porte-cochère, wings tight against its sides. “Good luck,” Markov said before turning back to Johnny.

“Father against daughter,” he shouted up at her. “So it has come to this.”

As she swung the spear gun around to aim it at him, he turned into a giant bat and flew out of the porte-cochère. Quinn sprinted to see where he was going. Markov flew up to his apartment window, changed into fog, and seeped inside.

Quinn started to run toward Johnny so he could warn her, but the pterodactyl now stood between him and the front door. Unblinking predatory eyes bore into him—pools of primeval savagery born eons ago. Staring back, resisting every urge to run, Quinn extended both arms to get their magnetic wristbands as close as possible to the creature.

Unfazed, the monster took a lurching step toward him. Maybe it was too far away for the magnetism to reach.

Or maybe it’s real.

“Run!” Johnny yelled.

“Markov is inside!” Quinn yelled back. “In his apartment!”

“I’ll deal with him. Run!”

Quinn back-pedaled out of the porte-cochère as fast as he could. The pterodactyl continued its lurching march toward him.

As it got within striking distance, Quinn pulled out the pepper spray and aimed at eyes narrowed for the kill.

The creature emitted a soul-ripping shriek that drove Quinn back. One flap of its enormous wings propelled it above his head before he could release the spray. In the next instant he felt talons digging into his shoulders. The pain was so intense he dropped the spray to free his hands and try to pull the talons off.

The pterodactyl was flying away with him.

They were headed in the direction of the lagoon and the forest beyond. He had to do something fast, before they got too high or too far.

He reached up and pulled on one of the talons. It dug deeper. Shards of moonlight glittered on the surface of the lagoon. They’d be there in seconds.

My knife.

Forcing himself to remain calm, he reached behind, unzipped the security pocket in his waistband, and pulled out the multitool. The lagoon was seconds away. Quinn extracted the knife from its slot and slashed one of the talons. The pterodactyl shrieked and released its grip on that shoulder, squeezing harder on the other.

Quinn dangled from the beast’s claws at least fifty yards above the water and getting higher every second. Hitting the water from this distance could cause serious injury, might even kill him, but hitting the trees or the ground would be worse. The water was his best chance, and they were halfway across the lagoon, approaching the end where he thought he’d seen a shape. They’d be over the trees in seconds.

He slashed the talons gripping his shoulder. With another soul-chilling shriek the pterodactyl released its grip. As Quinn saw the water zooming toward him, he curled himself into a ball and covered his face to prepare for the impact. It sounded like a gunshot when he slammed into the water, but the need to breathe obliterated any thoughts of pain. Quinn uncurled himself as he sank to the bottom. He landed on his feet in soft mud. The impact bent his legs at the knees, and from that crouch he launched himself toward the surface. As he shot upward, he glimpsed something partially concealed by a tall thicket of seaweed, as though hiding. It looked like a much more sinister version of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Its eyes were closed, its body limp. There were other alien shapes floating at the bottom among the kelp. Quinn guessed this must be a dumping ground for Markov’s failed attempts at creating movie monsters. But why were chains fettered around their ankles?

Just before the Creature disappeared from view, its eyes opened. Even in the dim glow of the moonlight, there was no mistaking it: Their demonic red glow was trained on him.

Max’s car teetered like a seesaw, half on and half off the ridge. Heart thumping, he opened the door and threw himself onto the flat surface of the ridge.

The car wobbled for a moment before coming to rest. Most of the trunk hung over the edge. The next gust of wind could slam against the open door and send the car falling.

The sword
. He couldn’t finish this without the sword. It was in the trunk.

Max scrambled to his feet and pushed the button on the door that opened the trunk. His heartbeat raced as he waited to see if the force of the lid popping open would upset the precarious balance. Several seconds went by without any movement. He released the breath he’d been holding. He went to the trunk and opened the lid as gently as he could.

The sword had come to rest at the rear of the trunk, which hung several feet over the edge. He couldn’t reach it from where he stood.

He had to have that sword.

He looked down to see if there was anywhere he could step to get closer. An outcropping of rock extended a few feet beyond the ridge. Two, three steps would get him there.

Rain splashed against his face. Max took one tentative step onto the outcrop, then another. He moved his feet slightly to test his footing, ready to jump back onto the ridge if they started to slip. They didn’t. He was only another step or two from the side of the trunk. Just as he lifted his foot to take the first one, he heard a loud grinding noise.

The car inched farther over the edge.

Max hurried to the trunk as fast as he dared and leaned in. The loud grinding became a roar as the car began to topple over the edge. Max’s fist closed on the hilt of the sword. He jumped back, a split-second before the car disappeared into the abyss. The jostling made him lose his footing. He twisted his body and threw his weight backward as he fell. He landed on the outcropping, inches from the sheer drop. Clutching the sword, he scrambled on hands and knees back onto the flat surface of the ridge. He crawled several feet to get away from the edge and collapsed.

He lay in the mud and rain for several moments, catching his breath and gathering the strength to move on. Finally he stood and looked at how far he had left to go. About fifty yards to the end of the ridge. The castle was a mile beyond that, and now he’d have to get there on foot, soaking wet. The rain was tapering off, but jagged bolts of lightning still exploded above the castle.

In the flashes of intermittent light, Max saw a dim red glow over the castle, obscured by the massive black storm cloud. Slowly, a hole began opening in the section of cloud that concealed the glow. Having been trained from childhood to see the world through the eyes of a filmmaker, Max envisioned the hole as an iris fade-in for the climax of Markov’s movie. When the source of the red glow was fully revealed, the hole stopped expanding, as though framing the focal point of the shot.

The Blood Moon stared down like the eye of Satan, beaming its demonic energy into Markov’s accursed pile. The image became so powerful that, standing there clutching the sword, Max began to envision himself as a lone Crusader, the one man who could reclaim this land from someone who worshipped—wanted to
be
—a character whose name meant Son of the Devil. A surge of self-righteousness propelled Max forward. Stepping carefully along the muddy ridge, when he finally made it across and began the mile-long march to the castle, his stride became a cocky strut.

The lightning continued to shred the sky above the castle, but the rain had stopped, and for the first time since leaving home this morning, Max felt sure he was going to succeed in his quest. He threw off his wet jacket and increased his pace. He was soaked to the bone and cold. The exercise would warm him. When he reached the castle he could get dry clothes from Johnny’s wardrobe before dealing with Markov.

Halfway to the castle a flash of lightning illuminated something about thirty yards ahead. What Max saw brought him to a sudden halt.

From each side of the thick woods that hugged the lane, a shadowy figure emerged and began shambling toward him. Despite their unsteady gaits, the pair rapidly came together to block his path. At first Max thought they might be drunken campers or hunters, but as they came closer, their cadaverous frames and tattered clothing made it clear they were much worse.

They were
flowers
that had escaped the Garden. Or—

Maybe they hadn’t escaped. Max thought of the letter he had sent, telling Markov he was coming to kill him. Maybe Markov had revived the undead enough to act as sentinels. They certainly weren’t behaving like half-dead corpses that had languished in their coffins for years. They moved into the best position for cutting him off—too close together for him to bull through, and too close to the woods for him to go around—with a surprising quickness that showed a sharpness of mind and intense focus on their task.

Max had to do something fast. They were barely twenty yards away now.

Striking off into the woods wasn’t an option. More of them might be waiting in there—or if not them, some of Markov’s other “creatures of the night.” And as dark as it was, Max would essentially be blind.

He couldn’t retreat. That would take him away from the castle, costing him time he didn’t have. And it wouldn’t solve his problem. He would still have to get around these things to get to Markov.

A rustling noise behind him made him snap his head around.

Two more were shuffling toward him. Retreating was no longer an option.

He would have to stand and fight.

As the undead closed in around him, uncertainty came into their eyes when they saw the sword. Seeing their hesitation, Max let out a maniacal yell and began thrusting and slicing with controlled fury. The attack took them by surprise. Years of inactivity had dulled their reflexes. One lunged at him, but could make only a feeble sidestep to avoid his parrying thrust.

The sword ran straight through the attacker’s chest. It was dead when it hit the ground.

Max kept the rest of them at bay with maniacal swings of the sword. Finally another of the undead gathered enough courage to make a lunge. Max countered with a vicious swipe.

The sword almost took its head off. Still attached by a few inches of flesh, the head flopped onto the chest. Blood spurted like a fountain as the eyes closed and the thing collapsed into a lifeless pile on the ground.

The eyes of the remaining two lit up when they saw the blood draining from the defenseless corpse. They fell to their knees and pressed their mouths to the huge gash.

Max quelled his revulsion at the loud slurping noises. He wanted to kill the foul bloodsuckers, but it might not go quickly, and others might show up to block his path. This wasn’t the battle he had come here to fight.

The sky over the castle had cleared. The red moon shone down on it with full force, and even though the rain had stopped, bolts of lightning still bombarded it as though hurled by a wrathful God. Again feeling like a lone Crusader, the one chosen to administer the killing blow to evil, Max hurried toward the castle.

Markov stopped at the landing in front of the Chamber of Horrors to begin his search for Johnny. He had to be careful. She had the advantage. The spear gun could kill from a distance. The impalement stake couldn’t. There were other weapons he could use, but.…