The Castle

Dracula Castle emerged through the fog shortly before dawn, its towers rising from the mountain like blackened spears. The fortress seemed to grow directly from the stone beneath it, its upper reaches disappearing into the clouds that had smothered the valley for days.

The others moved ahead to inspect the final approach, leaving Vanessa and John together beside the remains of an old stone marker. They had been travelling together for several days by then, long enough for the awkwardness of strangers to fade into a companionship they had both begun to enjoy.

Vanessa had learned that John slept lightly, preferred sitting near doors and instinctively offered his cloak whenever someone else looked cold. John, in turn, had discovered that Vanessa became considerably more talkative whenever she was nervous.

She glanced toward him. “When this is over, you and me are going on a proper date.”

John was caught off guard by her certainty. “I’d like that.”

Vanessa’s answering smile was smaller and far more genuine than the ones she wore while boasting about Van Helsing weapons.

Grodd’s voice carried from farther up the path. “If you two lovebirds are done talking, can we pay attention to the mission at hand?”

Vanessa’s face turned red with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “We’re coming, Grodd!”

John fell into step beside her, unable to suppress a smile.

The castle had been waiting for them.

The first wave descended before they had fully crossed the outer courtyard. Vanessa’s bow sang through the gloom, each silver-tipped arrow finding its mark with supernatural precision, while Grodd met whatever reached the ground with both knives. Sheira shattered wards and drove creatures from the galleries in bursts of violet-white light as Marcus remained behind them, tending injuries and reinforcing their protections.

John fought with his usual ruthless efficiency, yet something felt wrong from the moment he crossed the gates. An inexplicable sensation had settled deep within him, a persistent pull that grew stronger with every corridor they crossed. Whatever its source, it seemed to be calling him farther into the fortress.

He struck a creature with his shield as Grodd finished it. Vanessa controlled the upper gallery while Sheira held back the others. For the moment, they did not need him.

John’s gaze drifted toward a narrow staircase descending behind a broken arch. He had no memory of the place and no reason to believe anything important waited below, yet the pull intensified the instant he looked toward it.

Whatever was calling him was down there.

He slipped away while the others were occupied and descended into the darkness. The clash of steel and bursts of magic faded behind him as the air grew colder, touched by the damp stillness of stone that had not known sunlight in centuries.

The deeper he descended, the stranger his surroundings became. Several doors stood open along the passage, revealing abandoned chambers filled with dust and decaying furniture. Yet the torches along the walls burned steadily, and somewhere in the darkness beyond them came the faint sound of music.

John stopped to listen.

It was a melody he had never heard before.

Or perhaps he had.

The thought vanished, leaving an inexplicable sadness. He continued down the passage.

At the bottom of the staircase, John entered a vast gallery lined with portraits. Dozens covered the walls in age-dulled frames, each hidden beneath a white cloth. Their shrouded forms stood in silent rows while dust drifted through the stale air.

He stopped near the centre of the chamber. The mysterious pull had grown stronger, almost suffocating, and he could sense something extraordinary within the gallery. Something powerful, unlike anything he had encountered since awakening without his memories.

Then came the soft strike of heels against stone.

A woman emerged from the darkness.

Her white hair fell almost to her knees, gleaming against a lacy white gown that trailed behind her like mist. Her skin was pale as porcelain, almost luminous beneath the torchlight, while her scarlet eyes possessed a haunting beauty that made John forget, for a moment, why he had come.

One delicate hand held the stem of a wine glass filled with something far darker and thicker than wine.

She regarded him with an assurance that bordered on arrogance, as though an armed stranger wandering into her gallery were of no consequence.

John knew he should look away. Everything about her warned him of danger, yet those scarlet eyes held him captive. He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping a fistful tightly as he forced himself to stare at the covered portraits instead.

It lasted barely a second.

His gaze returned to her as though drawn by an invisible thread. He clenched his jaw, furious at his own weakness, but his heart hammered against his ribs.

Is this what she does to every man who crosses her path?

Was she enchanting him? Was this how she subdued her enemies, stripping them of their will before they could even raise a weapon?

He had prepared himself to face a creature of extraordinary strength. He had never considered that her most dangerous weapon might be something he could neither see nor fight.

This wasn't about strength. It was about control. And he had no idea how to fight it.

His fingers tightened around his sword, but the weapon suddenly felt meaningless. What use was a blade against someone who could make him forget why he was holding it?

And worse still, some treacherous part of him wanted to approach her.

His grip slackened. The sword slipped from his fingers and struck the stone floor with a sharp clang, but he barely heard it. His legs trembled, and before he understood what was happening, he dropped onto one knee.

What is happening to me?

She was the very creature he had come here to destroy, yet every instinct urging him to flee was overwhelmed by an unbearable desire to remain.

What if she kills me?

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, a far more disturbing answer rose unbidden.

So what if she does? Perhaps I'm willing to die.

He was horrified by his own surrender.

The vampiress watched him for a moment before a slow, satisfied smile spread across her lips, revealing two delicate fangs. She set her glass aside and approached with unhurried steps, the hem of her white gown whispering against the stone.

John remained on one knee as she stopped before him and bent gracefully, slipping her fingers beneath his chin. With gentle insistence, she tilted his face upward until their eyes met.

At this distance, he could see something unexpected in those scarlet eyes. She wasn't studying him like an enemy or regarding him like prey. There was an intimacy in her gaze, a familiarity that made considerably less sense than open hostility would have.

Then she threw her head back and laughed.

It wasn't a delicate chuckle, but wild, almost maniacal laughter that echoed through the empty gallery. John stared up at her, utterly bewildered. What could possibly amuse her so much?

When her laughter finally subsided, she brushed her thumb gently across his cheek, her scarlet eyes glittering with delight.

“Welcome home, husband.”

John froze.

Husband?

He stared at her, struggling to make sense of the word. Yet something deep within him stirred at the sound of it, as though a part of him had been waiting an eternity to hear her voice.

“Took you long enough,” she murmured, her thumb brushing across his cheek. “And you made such claims about finding me within a few hours.”

“What?”

“I hate to remind you, darling, but you lost.”

John could only stare. He had no idea what game she was talking about, why she called him her husband, or why the thought of stepping away from her seemed unbearable.

Before he could demand an explanation, one of her long nails pressed against his temple and drove in. Pain exploded through his skull, swallowing the chamber beneath a blinding rush of darkness as something ancient and immense tore through the wall inside his mind.

When his vision cleared, the man they had called John was still kneeling before her, but he was smiling now. Two sharp fangs descended beneath his upper lip as the confusion vanished from his eyes, replaced by something older, darker and infinitely more certain.

Dracula smiled.