Fear the Light Read online

  Vincent had promised himself not to dredge up the old days, but he had also known it was a promise he’d break. Much of the past seemed like a blur, but that fateful moment when everything changed was etched into his memory and still held its dark sway over him.

  The year was 1876 and he’d been tracking a vicious murderer across the state of Texas. The fiend had left ten bodies in his deadly wake, all of them female, their blood completely drained, albino corpses lined with twin puncture marks. The killer seemed to be always just one step ahead. Toying with him. Pushing him to the edge. The pursuit had become a game of cat and mouse, and it was consuming Vincent’s every waking moment.

  He finally tracked his quarry to a small town near the Mexican border. Two more bodies had been found and the locals relayed in hushed tones that a European gentleman had arrived earlier in the week, a man of means and manners whose very presence could cloud the minds of every unfortunate soul he came in contact with. He seemed to cast a nearly supernatural spell over the fairer sex. The gentleman in question was staying at the Old Moses saloon and according to all accounts, had only been spotted outside his room past sundown. Rumors about the stranger were spreading.

  Pale moonlight illuminated the rundown Wild West saloon as Vincent stepped through the swinging doors of the establishment. The shadow that the brim of his hat cast over his face masked his initial shock upon seeing what was waiting for him. He had walked into a nightmare. The saloon now transformed into a place of death. Mauled patrons were sprawled everywhere, a wasteland of broken bodies, the floor slippery with their blood. Vincent’s trembling hand closed around his silver Ranger badge, knowing all too well that it held no authority over the beast that rose from the center of the carnage. The moment their eyes hooked into each other, Vincent was stricken with mortal awareness – staring back at him was death itself. The gentleman who smiled at him through a bloody mist was a thing outside of nature. Vincent remembered his gun leaving his holster, and he remembered cocking the hammer of his pistol and squeezing the trigger.

  Again and again.

  Bullets tore into the enigmatic figure in a mad volley, puncturing flesh and destroying the man’s elegant coat. When the firing chamber was empty and the hammer clicked impotently, click, click, a metronome of spent violence, Dracula rose. Vincent was gripped with terror as he saw the bullet holes sealing shut before his very eyes, inhuman tissue regenerating in the blink of an eye. Vincent was a tough man; he’d confronted all kinds of human evil in his twenty-nine years on this earth but the crucial difference was that those degenerates were men, flesh-and-blood creatures who could succumb to the power of steel. This monster was unlike anything Vincent had ever faced before. Vincent didn’t just lose his humanity the day he went up against Dracula. He lost his soul. For he had not merely met his match but caught a glimpse of the Devil himself.

  Now Vincent cast these thoughts of the past aside as the hill grew steeper and he was forced to switch gears. According to the rental’s GPS system - they could’ve used one of these back in his Texas Rangers tracking days - the chateau should be coming into view any minute now. The forest was already thinning a bit and the vineyards now began to take over.

  A moment later, Vincent spotted the chateau. His first thought was that the term ‘chateau’ didn’t quite do justice to the structure. The sprawling estate that loomed at the top of the vineyards was a stark silhouette projecting a sense of mystery and dark wonder. Like Dracula himself, the keep wove a nearly hypnotic spell over anyone who laid eyes upon it. Not quite a spooky castle but the next best thing, it was the type of place where one would expect a vampire to set up shop. While most of the vampires Dracula spawned did their best to blend in and be modern (some with greater success than others), Dracula had never chosen to adapt to a changing world. He didn’t need to. Dracula was the master, even if Vincent refused to call him that. The Count might hide in the shadows but he would never pretend to be something he was not.

  The throaty roar of a motorbike bashed the air, breaking the chateau’s spell. Vincent turned his head and spotted a Harley gaining behind him. For a split second, Vincent caught a glimpse of the massive, leather-clad figure poised behind the handlebars. The vampire biker wasn’t wearing a helmet, his long mane of blonde hair trailing in the wind. This Twenty-First Century Viking flashed Vincent a menacing rock ’n’ roll grin, making sure to reveal his fangs. Another one of Dracula’s lost children (or experiments, depending on how one wanted to look at it) returning to pay his respects to their fallen master. As the biker pulled ahead, he cranked the engine for good measure. The bike’s engine wailed.

  Vincent tensed. The incident confirmed one thing he had known all along - he wasn’t looking forward to this dysfunctional family get-together.

  Not in the slightest.

  ***

  Vincent's car rolled up a driveway that was surrounded by vineyards on both sides and led right up to the chateau’s main gate. A six-foot-tall crumbling wall, overgrown with ivy, encircled the chateau. The wrought-iron gate stood wide open. It appeared that Vincent wasn’t the first to arrive today. He maneuvered his vehicle through the open gate and made his way up a cobbled, circular driveway dominated by a highly adorned, centuries-old ornamental stone fountain. Streams of water bubbled and poured from the mouths of Gothic nymphs. The fountain’s water appeared dark and murky.

  The rental car slid to a stop, joining the other vehicles parked around the fountain. The Harley that had just passed Vincent's car. A black Hummer. A sleek Porsche. Vincent guessed that they were all rentals, just like his own vehicle, but the choices told their own story and revealed the personalities of their individual drivers. Dracula had made a pretty eclectic group of monsters over the years. Monsters Vincent was about to interact with for the first time in decades.

  Once again Vincent wished he could be anywhere but this place but he didn’t really have a choice. He had never been friendly with the Count but he couldn’t deny the legacy that bound him to the creature and the other members of the clan. Dracula’s blood coursed through their veins. If Vincent had truly wanted to defy the Count, he’d have walked into the daylight long ago. Despite everything, Dracula was family. And one inevitable truth held true among all families – funerals brought everyone together. That’s what this would be. Dracula’s funeral.

  A fiery red Ferrari appeared in Vincent’s rear-view mirror as he killed the engine. Seconds later, a stunning blonde emerged from the sports car. She was wearing a sexy red dress that left little to the imagination. Vincent had met her once or twice over the last eighty years. Her name was Coraline and she’d been twenty-one when Dracula turned her, but she looked about five years older. According to Angelique - she was always up on clan gossip - Coraline was a failing starlet during the heyday of old Hollywood in the 1950s, a Marilyn Monroe wannabe riding the casting couch express toward a full-blown heroin addiction and the inevitable overdose. But Dracula took a shine to her and decided to add her to his freak pack.

  Vincent killed the engine, got out of the car and made his way up the pebbled walkway that led to the chateau’s main entrance. Vines climbed the façade of the chateau and tall trees nestled against the surface. Dracula had acquired the property right after World War II, Eastern Europe having lost its appeal in the wake of the Red Menace. The chateau was actually more of a bastide, a country home, originally built by wealthy Seventeenth Century citizens who sought to trade their sweltering city mansions for the cooler countryside during the hot summer months. The structure held about twenty rooms and could accommodate a large family with a full staff of servants. The property was brooding and Gothic but a pale shadow to the dark glory of Dracula’s castle back in Romania, which was a tourist attraction today. Funny how the world turned.

  Vincent passed a series of giant, cracked flowerpots when Coraline sidled up to him. She moved with grace and nearly unearthly sensuality as she fell in step with Vincent – maybe he was beginning to understand why Dracula added her to the
family.

  “Hello, Vincent.” She embraced Vincent and he could smell her cloying perfume. It was too sweet and way too overpowering but it summed up who Coraline was – a woman who demanded to be noticed. Men who ignored her did so at their own peril.

  “Hi Coraline.”

  “This place sure is something else,” Coraline said with a smile that could shatter hearts. “Only thing missing is a lightning storm.”

  Vincent nodded.

  “Dracula always had a flair for the dramatic.”

  A youthful voice chimed in.

  “A nice way of saying he was hopelessly stuck in the past.”

  Vincent and Coraline turned toward the new arrival, a young teenage boy who approached at an unhurried pace. The kid, who wasn’t really a kid and was far older than either Vincent or Coraline, cocked his head at them both. His name was Sebastian and he looked to be fourteen but had actually seen two centuries turn. He wore black slacks, a dress shirt and a tie of the same color. He looked like a teen pretending to be an adult.

  Sebastian was an orphan and a thief who began his pick-pocketing career back in Victorian England, just another victim of social upheaval brought upon by the Industrial Revolution. His life had taken a sharp turn the night he tried to lift the Count’s purse but for some reason Dracula had spared Sebastian (Dracula used to call him his own Oliver Twist, a nickname the teenage vampire detested but had stuck). Sebastian hadn’t physically changed a day since that distant night but his frosty, ancient eyes betrayed his true age.

  “Sebastian, it's been a long time.”

  Vincent smiled warmly. He’d always liked the little devil.

  “Too long. Vincent, it's good to see you after all these years. Funny how there comes a point when only death seems to bring people together.”

  Footfalls sounded behind them, steel-heeled boots clicking across the gravel courtyard. Vincent fired a sideways glance at the approaching biker who moments earlier had been showing off his steed. Clad in black and brown leather, tattooed and studded, sporting faded jeans and a sleek pair of Ray-Bans, he looked like the perfect candidate for a Hells Angels recruitment poster. He appeared to be in his late twenties but strutted his stuff like a teenage punk who needed to get his ass kicked.

  The biker ignored Vincent and regarded Sebastian with a sneer. “No one told me this was going to be an after-school party.”

  “I'm two-hundred-and-ninety years old, asshole.”

  “Tell that to the bouncer next time you want to cop a feel at a titty bar.”

  Coraline was the sole person to laugh at the joke. Angelique had mentioned to Vincent that the former starlet had a thing for assholes, and it appeared she wasn’t far off the mark.

  Vincent watched as Sebastian gave the biker a long, measured look.

  “Meet Zane. The master’s most recent addition to the family.”

  Vincent held the biker’s stare as he turned toward him.

  “So you must be Vincent,” Zane said. I thought you turned your back on the clan.”

  Vincent didn’t comment. Zane took his silence as encouragement to lean closer.

  “No offense, buddy, but you don't look so tough to me.”

  “Maybe I'm not,” Vincent said.

  “That's not what Angelique says.”

  “I wouldn’t believe everything that comes out of her mouth.”

  ”Angelique says she never hunted with anyone as merciless as you.”

  This made Coraline perk up and she appraised Vincent with renewed curiosity.

  “She’s been known to exaggerate,” Vincent said.

  Vincent disliked Zane pretty much on sight. And with each new confrontational word that came out of the biker’s pierced mouth, Vincent doubted that he’d change his mind on the matter any time soon.

  Zane stepped even closer. He had about five inches and sixty pounds on Vincent, but the former Texas Ranger wasn’t impressed.

  “I know you guys had a history,” Zane said. “But nowadays, she belongs to me.”

  “Last time I checked, Angelique didn't belong to anyone.”

  Zane smirked and turned toward the chateau. Coraline fell in step with him. The two vampires dipped through a series of arched columns supporting a large awning that bathed the main entrance in shadow.

  Vincent turned to Sebastian. “What’s his story?”

  “Drug-dealing biker asshole who crossed Dracula’s path in the 70s. Your ex seems to have taken a shine to him.”

  “Angelique likes to play with new toys. But she gets bored fast.”

  “She never got bored with you,” Sebastian noted.

  Vincent didn’t argue the point one way or another. Instead, he said, “You looking forward to this as much as I am?”

  Sebastian grinned. “You kidding? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE HULKING DOOR opened with a creak of iron. Vincent and Sebastian ventured inside Dracula's castle, passing the stone pillars that marked the entrance hall. Vaulted ceilings, pointed arches and detailed woodwork added to the medieval atmosphere but to Vincent’s surprise, the interior décor displayed a number of contemporary touches. The chateau might’ve looked ancient, but it did offer a few amenities of the 21st Century. Electric torches flickered inside sconces, painting surreal shadows. Modern art and sculptures blended with the tapestries, mosaics and various other ancient items gathered over many lifetimes. The detailed moldings and cabinetry projected Gothic elegance and contributed to the chateau’s museum-like, surreal atmosphere.

  As the vampires made their way across the vestibule, their footsteps echoed across the perfectly preserved flagstone floor. A few moments later, they arrived inside a great hall. Five thick wax candles were suspended in heavy holders on the wall and the flickering flames painted a ghostly picture of the room. A long, antique wooden table surrounded by high-backed, winged chairs dominated the chamber and was further illuminated by a sparkling chandelier that hung from the ceiling. There were a number of large windows, the wooden shutters latched to the walls. The blacked-out glass allowed muted moonlight to filter through.

  A resonant voice marked by a faint echo of a foreign accent – Italian or French, perhaps - greeted them. “It appears the circle is complete.”

  The speaker was none other than Rafael, the eldest member of the clan. He sat at the head of the table, his brooding eyes silently evaluating the newcomers.

  Vincent met Rafael’s gaze and held it as he closed in on an empty chair. All indicators suggested that Rafael had appointed himself new leader of the clan. Was it a position he occupied because no one else cared to contest it?

  Vincent had no idea how secure Rafael’s leadership was. He was cut off from the politics of the clan, which meant he had only a vague sense of who was favored to succeed Dracula, and he didn’t know whether a great storm might be brewing or if calmer days lay ahead. Vincent hadn’t seen most of these vampires in decades, nor did he care to catch up with them. They had grown apart, their paths diverting over the decades and centuries. The moment Vincent decided to stop feeding on humans, he became persona non grata among the circle of apex predators. And he was okay with that.

  Rafael surveyed the room, using his striking, commanding presence to dominate the meeting. He fit the image that the world had of vampires. Swarthy, exotic good looks complemented by black hair and a compact physicality. His European clothes were tailor-made from the finest materials, clearly designer shirts and slacks that adhered to a muted color scheme. The overall effect was both seductive and alluring. He reminded Vincent of the master. If someone had to recast Dracula, they could do far worse than Rafael.

  But looks were only one part of the package. Dracula had been magnetic but also cunning, a ruthless intelligence forged by the brutality of another age. Even though Rafael was the eldest and once upon a time had been a Free Imperial Knight of the Holy Roman Empire, Vincent harbored doubts about his long-term leadership potential. He had strength – on some level th
ey all did – but there was also softness there, a proclivity to let his emotions take over, and to rule with his feelings. Time would tell if Rafael had matured since their last encounter but deep down, Vincent doubted it. As the years flew by, vampires didn’t change but instead became more set in their ways. It was a sad truism that Vincent had witnessed countless times in himself.

  Vincent took a seat at the large wooden table, joining Sebastian, Rafael, Coraline and Zane. Angelique was present too. There were two new faces with which Vincent was all too familiar: Faust, tall and physically imposing, his impossibly brilliant blue eyes like chips of frozen ice, framed by blond hair that was almost silver. His chiseled Nordic looks were tainted slightly by a Teutonic cruelness. If anyone would contest Rafael’s leadership, Vincent mused, it would undoubtedly be Faust, a former member of the SS who had begged Dracula for the dark gift as his troops were being pushed back by the Red Army. The poetic irony wasn’t lost on Vincent and must’ve appealed to Dracula’s dark sense of the absurd. Like his famous literary namesake, Faust had struck a deal with the devil but instead of sporting horns, this demon in human disguise flaunted fangs.

  Sitting right next to Faust was Julian, attractive in a thoughtful, erudite way, a dreamer, his gaze revealing a deep sensitivity and spirituality. Julian had been a priest before Dracula sank his fangs into him and was the most tormented member of the clan. Julian kept a prayer book and wore a gold crucifix around his neck – he despised what he had become but lacked the courage to take a stroll into the light (after all, suicide was a deadly sin). Julian liked to judge and be judged and was “emo” long before the term was coined, but for all his self-pity and drama, he lacked the will to take action and alter his world.