Chapter 30
London, England
Abraham Van Helsing leaned back in his seat, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. When his old colleague Dr. Seward had first requested his presence in London to see the Westenra case, he’d known something was wrong.
Every symptom the doctor had outlined could be dismissed as nothing more than anemia, except for the matter of its intensity.
It was as though Lucy Westenra’s body was breaking down its own blood cells, leaving her worse than before.
Dr. Seward had moved beyond tonics, into more drastic measures—blood transfusions.
At first, they’d seem to do wonders for the poor girl, but then it always took a turn.
From a scientific perspective, it should be impossible.
How was it that she could receive these transfusions and have her body react positively, only for it to appear as though she’d never received the transfusion at all a few days later?
It was as though she was continuously being drained dry.
That’s where Van Helsing came in.
Van Helsing had seen cases like this before.
He’d travelled all over Europe, dealing with cases that could not be explained by the scientific.
The oddest part about Miss Westenra’s case was that this had taken place in London.
All prior incidents he’d investigated were in low-population areas far outside the city hubs.
But then, he supposed it was possible that these supernatural crimes were committed in cities as well but dealt with as though they were simply absurd murders by mass killers.
After spending several days with Dr. Seward and Miss Westenra in London, he’d felt surer than ever that this was no medical phenomenon—this was something occult.
This was the work of a vampire.
The thought of discovering yet another vampire was dreadful enough, but then he’d uncovered something far more shocking—Lucy Westenra was connected to the newest Dracula bride.
Van Helsing’s jaw must have dropped open completely at this bit of information. He thought back to the woman he’d encountered that night at Castle Dracula, her dark hair and eyes, her distrust of him palpable in the mere moments that they stood in one another’s company.
He hadn’t been there for her. Hadn’t even expected to come across the woman.
He’d been looking for Father Petru, the priest who’d been abducted by Count Dracula some weeks prior.
After the failed raid that resulted in several deaths—he’d warned them not to attempt such a thing—Van Helsing had decided that it would be up to him to find the man and set him free.
That is, if he was still alive.
After all that time, it hadn’t been likely that Father Petru wasn’t sacrificed to the Count’s wicked wives, but Van Helsing had promised to try.
That was when he’d seen the woman running from those wolves.
He could tell right away that she had not yet been turned, and that had been most surprising to him.
In all the years he’d studied the man, the Count had never been a patient man.
So why hadn’t he turned his newest bride?
Van Helsing had pushed all questions aside and ran down those steps, grasping onto her cloak as she ran past and pulling her to safety.
As soon as they stood there in the dark, each of them breathing heavily, he knew he’d made a grave error. This woman was the Count’s newest bride—she would reveal Van Helsing’s presence in the castle, putting his entire mission at stake.
But what was he to do? Let the poor thing die?
He supposed it wasn’t an unreasonable idea considering she’d been foolish enough to wander around the courtyard in the middle of the night when the gate had been raised, but who was he to play God?
If Van Helsing had only known then what he knew now.