Dracul by Dacre Stoker & J.D. Barker

Author:Dacre Stoker & J.D. Barker
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3
Published: 2018-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

NOW

Alone.

The wolves do not return—or if they do, Bram doesn’t see them. He stands guard at the window, writing feverishly in his journal in hopes of documenting all while still able.

He can still hear them, though. Their brooding howls break through the night from all around, and occasionally the creature behind the door answers them, sometimes with a howl of its own, other times with nothing more than a frustrated-sounding grunt or the shuffle of agitated feet. At one point, it sniffed at the doorframe again, first at the bottom, then somehow going up the side and over the top—high above Bram’s head. Bram has no idea how it could do such a thing and he tries not to even think about it.

Now the creature scratches at the wood. Not the sound of a dog pawing at a surface, but that of a person with long fingernails dragging them from the top of the door to the bottom and back up again. Bram cringes at the thought of splinters digging beneath those nails, yet the creature only presses harder, oblivious to the pain. This repeats over and over again. When the scratching does stop, the room falls into silence.

It is then Bram catches sight of him.

A lone man standing atop the very rock on which he broke the holy water. The man is tall and dressed all in black. Long, dark hair frames a pale face beneath a black top hat. He wears a cloak the full length of his body. It wavers in the night air, fluttering at his feet. Bram can’t see his face. The man looks to the earth, and shadows blot out his features. As he turns his head, those same shadows seem to follow the contours of his face, keeping him in constant darkness.

Bram reaches back and takes the rifle in hand. Simply touching the cold steel brings comfort, although he knows the weapon will be of little good. Whoever or whatever this man is, he does not fear bullets.

He’s come for us, Bram. He wants me, but he wants you most of all. We are not that different, you and I, the blood of others thriving within our veins.

The voice is male this time, unfamiliar.

If you release me, perhaps he will spare you.

Bram plans to do no such thing.

He sets down the rifle and pulls the last two roses from the basket, blesses them, and places one on each windowsill.

Drawn either by the movement or the act itself, the man looks up. A smirk plays across his thin red lips. Bram catches the faintest hint of white teeth beneath those lips and is reminded of the wolves, their hungry fangs dripping with thick saliva.

Behind the door comes the little girl’s giggle again.

The man stares up at him for the longest time, still as a statue, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. Then he raises his hand and points—long fingers outstretched, reaching across the distance, reaching for Bram.

Bram’s arm begins to itch furiously. First at the two small bite marks, then up his forearm and all the way to his shoulder.

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