This is from the first anthology I ever appeared in, The Many Faces of Van Helsing, which had nothing to do with the Hugh Jackman film but was released at the same time to capitalize on it. I don’t do many period pieces, and don’t do many stories set in foreign countries. I also don’t do many vampire stories, even though I love to read them. This is set in England in the 1960s, and I paid a lot of attention to vernacular, trying to get it to sound right.

“Three stinking quid?”

Colin wanted to reach over the counter and throttle the old bugger. The radio he brought in was brand new and worth at least twenty pounds.

Of course, it was also hot. Delaney’s was the last pawnbroker in Liverpool that didn’t ask questions. Colin dealt with them frequently because of this. But each and every time, he left the shop feeling ripped off.

“Look, this is state of the art. The latest model. You could at least go six.”

As expected, the old wank didn’t budge. Colin took the three coins and left, muttering curses under his breath.

Where the hell was he going to get more money?

Colin rubbed his hand, fingers trailing over dirty scabs. His eyes itched. His throat felt like he’d been swallowing gravel. His stomach was a tight fist that he couldn’t unclench.

If he didn’t score soon, the shakes would start.

Colin tried to work up enough saliva to spit, and only half-managed. The radio had been an easy snatch; stupid bird left it on the window ledge of her flat, plugged in and wailing a new Beatles tune. Gifts like that don’t come around that often.

He used to do okay robbing houses, but the last job he pulled left him with three broken ribs and a mashed nose when the owner came home early. And Colin’d been in pretty good shape back then. Now-frail and wasted and brittle as he was-a good beating would kill him.

Not that Colin was afraid to die. He just wanted to score first. And three pounds wouldn’t even buy him a taste.

Colin hunkered down on the walk, pulled up the collar on his wool coat. The coat had been nice once, bought when Colin was a straighty, making good wage. He’d almost sold it many times, but always held out. English winters bit at a man’s bones. There was already a winter-warning chill in the air, even though autumn had barely started.

Still, if he could have gotten five pounds for it, he’d have shucked it in an instant. But with the rips, the stains, the piss smell, he’d be lucky to get fifty p.

“Ello, Colin.”

Colin didn’t bother looking up. He recognized the sound of Butts’s raspy drone, and couldn’t bear to tolerate him right now.

“I said, ello, Colin.”

“I heard you, Butts.”

“No need to be rude, then.”

Butts plopped next to him without an invite, smelling like a loo set ablaze. His small eyes darted this way and that along the sidewalk, searching for half spent fags. That’s how he’d earned his nickname.

“Oh, lucky day!”

Butts grinned and reached into the street, plucking up something with filthy fingers. There was a lipstick stain on the filter, and it had been stamped flat.

“Good for a puff or two, eh?”

“I’m in no mood today, Butts.”

“Strung out again, are we?”

Butts lit the butt with some pub matches, drew hard.

“I need a few more quid for a nickel bag.”

“You could pull a job.”

“Look at me, Butts. I weigh ten stone, and half that is the coat. A small child could beat my arse.”

“Just make sure there’s no one home, mate.”

“Easier said,” Colin thought.

“You know”—Butts closed his eyes, smoke curling from his nostrils”—I’m short on scratch myself right now. Maybe we could team up for something. You go in, I could be lookout, we split the take.”

Colin almost laughed. He didn’t trust Butts as far as he could chuck him.

“How about I be the lookout?”

“Sorry, mate. You’ll run at the first sign of trouble.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

Butts shrugged. His fag went out. He made two more attempts at lighting it, and then flicked it back into the street.

“Sod it, then. Let’s do a job where we don’t need no lookout.”

“Such as?”

Butts scratched his beard, removed a twig.

“There’s this house, see? In Heysham, near where I grew up. Been abandoned for a long time. Loaded with bounty, I bet. That antiquey stuff fetches quite a lot in the district.”

“It’s probably all been jacked a long time ago.”

“I don’t think so. When I was a pup, the road leading up to it was practically invisible. All growed over by woods, you see. Only the kids knew about it. And we all stayed far away.”

“Why?”

“Stories. Supposed to have goblins. Bollocks like that. I went up to it once, on a dare. Got within ten yards. Then I heard the screaming.”

Colin rolled his eyes. He needed to quit wasting time with Butts and think of some way to get money. It would be dark soon.

“You think I’m joshing? I swear on the head of my lovely, sainted mother. I got within a stone’s throw, and a god-fearful scream comes out of the house. Sounded like the devil his self was torturing some poor soul. Wet my kecks, I did.”

“It was probably one of your stupid mates, Butts. Having a giggle at your expense.”

“Wasn’t a mate, Colin. I’m telling you, no kid in town went near that house. Nobody did. And I’ve been thinking about it a lot, lately. I bet there’s some fine stuff to nick in there.”

“Why haven’t you gone back then, eh? If this place is full of stealables, why haven’t you made a run?”

Butts’s roving eyes locked onto another prize. He lit up, inhaled.

“It’s about fifteen miles from here. Every so often I save up the rail money, but I always seem to spend the dough on something else. Hey, you said you have a few quid, right? Maybe we can take the train and —”

“No way, Butts.”

Colin got up, his thin bones creaking. He could feel the onset of tremors in his hands, and jammed them into his pockets.

“Heysham Port is only a two hour ride. Then only a wee walk to the house.”

“I don’t want to spend my loot on train tics, and I don’t want to spend the night in bloody Heysham. Pissant little town.”

Colin looked left, then right, realizing it didn’t matter what direction he went. He began walking, Butts nipping at his heels.

“I got old buds in Heysham. They’ll put us up. Plus I got a contact there. He could set us up with some smack, right off. Wouldn’t even need quid; we can barter with the pretties we nick.”

“No.”

Butts put his dirty hand on Colin’s shoulder, squeezed. His fingernails resembled a coal miner’s.

“Come on, mate. We could be hooked up in three hours. Maybe less. You got something better to do? Find a hole somewhere, curl up until the puking stops? You recall how long it takes to stop, Colin?”

Colin paused. He hadn’t eaten in a few days, so there was nothing to throw up but his own stomach lining. He’d done that, once. Hurt something terrible, all bloody and foul.

But Heysham? Colin didn’t believe there was anything valuable in that armpit of a town. Let alone some treasure-filled house Butts’d seen thirty years back.

Colin rubbed his temple. It throbbed, in a familiar way. As the night dragged on, the throbbing would get worse.

He could take his quid, buy a tin of aspirin and some seltzer, and hope the withdrawal wouldn’t be too bad this time.

But he knew the truth.

As far as bad decisions went, Colin was king. One more wouldn’t make a dif.

“Fine, Butts. We’ll go to Heysham. But if there’s nothing there, you owe me. Big.”

Butts smiled. The three teeth he had left were as brown as his shoes.

“You got it, mate! And you’ll see! Old Butts has got a feeling about this one. We’re going to score, and score big. You’ll see.”

By the time the rail spit them out at Heysham Port, Colin was well into the vomiting.

He’d spent most of the ride in the loo, retching his guts out. With each purge, he forced himself to drink water, so as not to do any permanent damage to his gullet.

It didn’t help. When the water came back up, it was tinged pink.

“Hang in there, Colin. It isn’t far.”

Bollocks it wasn’t far. They walked for over three hours. The night air was a meat locker, and the ground was all slope and hill. Wooded country, overgrown with trees and high grass, dotted with freezing bogs. Colin noticed the full moon, through a sliver in the canopy, then the forest swallowed it up.

They walked by torchlight; Butts had swaddled an old undershirt around a stick. Colin stopped vomiting, but the shivering got so bad he fell several times. It didn’t help that Butts kept getting his reference points mixed up and changed directions constantly.

“Don’t got much left, Butts.”

“Stay strong, mate. Almost there. See? We’re on the road.”

Colin looked down, saw only weeds and rocks.

“Road?”

“Cobblestone. You can still see bits of curbing.”

Colin’s hopes fell. If the road was in such disrepair, the house was probably worse off.

Stinking Heysham. Stinking Butts.

“There it is, mate! What did I tell you?”

Colin stared ahead and viewed nothing but trees. Slowly, gradually, he saw the house shape. The place was entirely obscured, the land so overgrown it appeared to be swallowing the frame.

“Seems like the house is part of the trees,” Colin said.

“Was like that years ago, too. Worse now, of course. And lookit that. Windows still intact. No one’s been inside here in fifty years, I bet.”

Colin straightened up. Butts was right. As rundown as it was, the house looked untouched by humans since the turn of the century.

“We don’t have to take everything at once. Just find something small and pricey to nick now, and then we can come back and —”

The scream paralyzed Colin. It was a force, high pitched thunder, ripping through him like needles. Unmistakably human, yet unlike any human voice Colin had ever heard.

And it was coming from the house.

Butts gripped him with both hands, the color fleeing his ruddy face.

“Jesus Christ! Did you hear that? Just like when I was a kid! What do we do, Colin?”

A spasm shook Colin’s guts, and he dry-heaved onto some scrub brush. He wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve.

“We go in.”

“Go in? I just pissed myself.”

“What are you afraid of, Butts? Dying? Look at yourself. Death would be a blessing.”

“My life isn’t a good one, Colin, but it’s the only one I’ve got.”

Colin pushed past. The scream was chilling, yes. But there was nothing in that house worse than what Colin had seen on the street. Plus, he needed to get fixed up, bad. He’d crawl inside the devil’s arse to get some cash.

“Hold up for me!”

Butts attached himself to Colin’s arm. They crept towards the front door.

Another scream rattled the night, even louder than the first. It vibrated through Colin’s body, making every nerve jangle.

“I just pissed myself again!”

“Quiet, Butts! Did you catch that?”

“Catch what?”

“It wasn’t just a scream. I think it was a word.”

Colin held his breath, waiting for the horrible sound to come again. The woods stayed silent around them, the wind and animals still.

The scream cut him to the marrow.

“There! Sounded like hell.”

Butts’s eyes widened, the yellows showing.

“Let’s leave, Colin. My trousers can’t hold anymore.”

Colin shook off Butts and continued creeping towards the house.

Though naive about architecture, Colin had grown up viewing enough castles and manors to recognize this building was very old. The masonry was concealed by climbing vines, but the wrought iron adorning the windows was magnificent. Even decades of rust couldn’t obscure the intricate, flowing curves and swirls.

As they neared, the house seemed to become larger, jutting dormers threatening to drop down on their heads, heavy walls stretching off and blending into the trees. Colin stopped at the door, nearly nine feet high, hinges big as a man’s arm.

“Butts! The torch!”

Butts slunk over, waving the flame at the door.

The knob was antique, solid brass, and glinted in the torchlight. At chest level hung a grimy knocker. Colin licked his thumb and rubbed away the patina.

“Silver.”

“Silver? That’s great, Colin! Let’s yank it and get out of here.”

But Colin wouldn’t budge. If just the door knocker was worth this much, what treasures lay inside?

He put his hand on the cold knob. Turned.

It opened.

As a youth, Colin often spent time with his grandparents, who owned a dairy farm in Shincliffe. That’s how the inside of this house smelled; like the musk and manure of wild beats. A feral smell, his grandmum had often called it.

Taking the torch from Butts, he stepped into the foyer, eyes scanning for booty. Decades of dust had settled on the furnishings, motes swirling into a thick fog wherever the duo stepped. Beneath the grime, Colin could recognize the quality of the furniture, the value of the wall hangings.

They’d hit it big.

It was way beyond a simple, quick score. If they did this right, went through the proper channels, he and Butts could get rich off of this.

Another scream shook the house.

Butts jumped back, his sudden movement sending clouds of dust into the air. Colin coughed, trying to wave the filth out of his face.

“It came from down there!” Butts pointed at the floor, his quivering hand casting erratic shadows in the torchlight. “It’s a ghost, I tell you! Come to take us to hell!”

Colin’s heart was a hummingbird in his chest, trying to find a way out. He was scared, but even more than that, he was concerned.

“Not hell, Butts. It sounded more like help.”

Colin stepped back, out of the dust cloud. He thrust the torch at the floor, looking for a way down.

“Ello! Anyone down there?”

He tapped at the wood slats with the torch, listening for a hollow sound.

“Ello!”

The voice exploded up through the floorboards, cracking like thunder.

“PRAISE GOD, HELP ME!”

Butts grabbed Colin’s shoulders, his foul breath assaulting his ear.

“Christ, Colin! There’s a wraith down there!”

“Don’t be stupid, Butts. It’s a man. Would a ghost be praising God?”

Colin bent down, peered at the floor.

“What’s a man doing under the house, Colin?”

“Bugger if I know. But we have to find him.”

Butts nodded, eager.

“Right! If we rescue the poor sap, maybe we’ll get a reward, eh?”

Colin grabbed Butts by the collar, pulled him close.

“This place is a gold mine. We can’t let anyone else know it exists.”

Butts gazed at him stupidly.

“We have to snuff him,” Colin said.

“Snuff him? Colin, I don’t think —”

Colin clamped his hand over Butts’s mouth.

“I’ll do it, when the time comes. Just shut up and follow my lead, got it?”

Butts nodded. Colin released him and went back to searching the floor. “Ello! How’d you get down there!”

“There is a trap door, in the kitchen!”

Colin located the kitchen off to the right. An ancient, wood burning stove stood vigil in one corner, and there was an icebox by the window. On the kitchen table, slathered with dust, lay a table setting for one. Colin wondered, fleetingly, what price the antique china and crystal would fetch, and then turned his attention to the floor.

“Where!”

“The corner! Next to the stove!”

Colin looked around for something to sweep away the dust. He reached for the curtains, figured they might be worth something, and then found a closet on the other side of the room. There was a broom inside.

He gave Butts the torch and swept slowly, trying not to stir up the motes. After a minute, he could make out a seam in the floorboards. The seam extended into a man-sized square, complete with a recessed iron latch.

When Colin pulled up on the handle, he was bathed in a foul odor a hundred times worse than anything on his grandparent’s farm. The source of the feral smell.

And it was horrible.

Mixed in with the scent of beasts was decay; rotting, stinking, flesh. Colin knelt down, gagging. It took several minutes for the contractions to stop.

“There’s a ladder.” Butts thrust the torch into the hole. His free hand covered his nose and mouth.

“How far down?” Colin managed.

“Not very. I can make out the bottom.”

“Hey! You still down there!”

“Yes. But before you come down, you must prepare yourselves, gentlemen.”

“Prepare ourselves? What for?”

“I am afraid my appearance may pose a bit of a shock. However, you must not be afraid. I promise I shall not hurt you.”

Butts eyed Colin, intense. “I’m getting seriously freaked out. Let’s just nick the silver knocker and —”

“Give me the torch.”

Butts handed it over. Colin dropped the burning stick into the passage, illuminating the floor.

A moan, sharp and strong, welled up from the hole.

“You okay down there, mate?”

“The light is painful. I have not born witness to light for a considerable amount of time.”

Butts dug a finger into his ear, scratching. “Bloke sure talks fancy.”

“He won’t for long.” Colin sat on the floor, found the rungs with his feet, and began to descend.

The smell doubled with every step down; a viscous odor that had heat and weight and sat on Colin’s tongue like a dead cat. In the flickering flame, Colin could make out the shape of the room. It was a root cellar, cold and foul. The dirt walls were rounded, and when Colin touched ground he sent plumes of dust into the air. He picked up the torch to locate the source of the voice. In the corner, standing next to the wall, was…

“Sweet Lord Jesus Christ!”

“I must not be much to look at.”

That was the understatement of the century. The man, if he could be called that, was excruciatingly thin. His bare chest resembled a skeleton with a thin sheet of white skin wrapped tight around, and his waist was so reduced it had the breadth of Colin’s thigh.

A pair of tattered trousers hung loosely on the unfortunate man’s pelvis, and remnants of shoes clung to his feet, several filthy toes protruding through the leather.

And the face, the face! A hideous skull topped with limp, white hair, thin features stretched across cheekbones, eyes sunken deep into bulging sockets.

“Please, do not flee.”

The old man held up a bony arm, the elbow knobby and ball-shaped. Around his wrist coiled a heavy, rusted chain, leading to a massive steel ball on the ground.

Colin squinted, then gasped. The chain wasn’t going around this unfortunate’s wrist; it went through the wrist, a thick link penetrating the flesh between the radius and ulna.

“Colin! You okay?”

Butts’s voice made Colin jump.

“Come on down, Butts! I think I need you!”

“There is no need to be afraid. I will not bite. Even if I desired to do so.”

The old man stretched his mouth open, exposing sticky, gray gums. Both the upper and lower teeth were gone.

“I knocked them out quite some time ago. I could not bear to be a threat to anyone. May I ask to whom I am addressing?”

“Eh?”

“What is your name, dear sir?”

Colin started to lie, then realized there was no point. He was going to snuff this poor sod, anyway.

“Colin. Colin Willoughby.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Willoughby. Allow me. My name is Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, professor emeritus at Oxford University. Will you allow me one more question?”

Colin nodded. It was eerie, watching this man talk. His body was ravaged to the point of disbelief, but his manner was polite and even affable.

“What year of our Lord is this, Mr. Willoughby?”

“The year? It’s nineteen sixty-five.”

Van Helsing’s lips quivered. His sad, sunken eyes went glassy.

“I have been down here longer than I have imagined. Tell me, pray do, the nosferatu; were they wiped out in the war?”

“What war? And what is a nosfer-whatever you said?”

“The war must have been many years ago. There were horrible, deafening explosions that shook the ground. I believe it went on for many months. I assumed it was a battle with the undead.”

Was this crackpot talking about the bombing from WWII? He couldn’t have been down here for that long. There was no food, no water…

“Mary, Mother of God!”

Butts stepped off the ladder and crouched behind Colin. He held another torch, this one made from the broom they’d used to sweep the kitchen floor.

“Whom am I addressing now, good sir?”

“He’s asking your name, Butts.”

“Oh. It’s Butts.”

“Good evening to you, Mr. Butts. Now if I may get an answer to my previous inquiry, Mr. Willoughby?”

“If you mean World War Two, the war was with Germany.”

“I take it, because you both are speaking in our mother tongue, that Germany was defeated?”

“We kicked the krauts’ arses,” Butts said from behind Colin’s shoulder.

“Very good, then. You also related that you do not recognize the term nosferatu?”

“Never heard of it.”

“How about the term vampire?”

Butts nodded, nudging Colin in the ribs with his elbow. “Yeah, we know about vampires, don’t we Colin? They been in some great flickers.”

“Flickers?”

“You know. Movie shows.”

Van Helsing knitted his brow. His skin was so tight, it made the corners of his mouth draw upwards.

“So the nosferatu attend these movie shows?”

“Attend? Blimey, no. They’re in the movies. Vampires are fake, old man. Everyone knows that. Dracula don’t really exist.”

“Dracula!” Van Helsing took a step forward, the chain tugging cruelly against his arm. “You know the name of the monster!”

“Everyone knows Dracula. Been in a million books and movies.”

Van Helsing seemed lost for a moment, confused. Then a light flashed behind his black eyes.

“My memorandum,” he whispered. “Someone must have published it.”

“Eh?”

“These vampires… you say they do not exist?”

“They’re imaginary, old man. Like faeries and dragons.”

Van Helsing slumped against the wall. His arm jutted out to the side, chain stretched and jangling in protest. He gummed his lower lip, staring into the dirt floor.

“Then I must be the last one.”

Colin was getting anxious. He needed some smack, and this old relic was wasting precious time. In Colin’s pocket rested a boning knife he kept for protection. Colin’d never killed anybody before, but he figured he could manage. A quick poke-poke, and then they’d be on their way.

“I thought vampires had fangs.” Butts approached Van Helsing, his head cocked to the side like a curious dog.

“I threw them in the dirt, about where you are presently standing. Knocked them out by ramming my mouth rather forcefully into this iron weight I am chained to.”

“So you’re really a vampire?”

Colin almost told Butts to shut the hell up, but decided it was smarter to keep the old man talking. He fingered the knife handle and took a casual step forward.

“Unfortunately, I am. After Seward and Morris destroyed the Monster, we thought there were no more. Foolish.”

Van Helsing’s eyes looked beyond Colin and Butts.

“Morris passed on. Jonathan and Mina named their son after him. Quincey. He was destined to be a great man of science; that was the sort of mind the boy had. Logical and quick to question. But on his sixth birthday, they came.”

“Who came?” Butts asked.

“Keep him talking,” Colin thought. He took another step forward, the knife clutched tight.

“The vampiri. Unholy children of the fiend, Dracula. They found us. My wife, Dr. Seward, Jonathan, Mina… all slaughtered. But poor, dear Quincey, his fate proved even worse. They turned him.”

“You mean, they bit him on the neck and made him a vampire?”

“Indeed they did, Mr. Butts. I should have ended his torment, but he was so small. An innocent lamb. I decided that perhaps, with a combination of religion and science, I might be able to cure him.”

Butts squatted on his haunches, less than a yard from the old man. “I’ll wager he’s the one that got you, isn’t he?”

Van Helsing nodded, glumly.

“I kept him down here. Performed my experiments during the day, while he slept. But one afternoon, distracted by a chemistry problem, I stayed too late, and he awoke from his undead slumber and administered the venom into my hand.”

“Keep talking, old man,” Colin whispered under his breath. He pulled the knife from his pocket and held it at his side, hidden up the sleeve of his coat.

“I developed the sickness. While drifting in and out of consciousness, I realized I was being tended to. Quincey, dear, innocent Quincey, had brought others of his kind back to my house.”

“They the ones that chained you to the wall?”

“Indeed they did, Mr. Butts. This is the ultimate punishment for one of their kind. Existing with this terrible, gnawing hunger, with no way to relieve the ache. The pain has been quite excruciating, throughout the years. Starvation combined with a sickening craving. Like narcotic withdrawal.”

“We know what that’s like,” Butts offered.

“I tried drinking my own blood, but it is sour and offers no relief. Occasionally, a small insect or rodent wanders into the cellar, and much as I try to resist it, the hunger forces me to commit horrible acts.” Van Helsing shook his head. “Renfield would have been amused.”

“So you been living on bugs and vermin all this time? You can’t survive on that.”

“That is my problem, Mr. Butts. I do survive. As I am already dead, I shall exist forever unless extraordinary means are applied.”

Butts laughed, giving his knees a smack. “It’s a bloody wicked tale, old man. But we both know there ain’t no such things as vampires.”

“Do either of you have a mirror? Or a crucifix, perhaps? I believe there is one in the jewelry box, on the night stand in the upstairs bedroom. I suggest you bring it here.”

Now they were getting somewhere. Jewelry was easy to carry, and easier to pawn. Colin’s veins twitched in anticipation.

“Go get it, Butts. Bring the whole box down.”

Butts nodded, quickly disappearing up the ladder.

Colin studied Van Helsing, puzzling about the best way to end him. The old man was so frail, one quick jab in the chest and he should be done with it.

“That small knife you clutch in your hand, that may not be enough, Mr. Willoughby.”

Colin was surprised that Van Helsing had noticed, but it didn’t matter at this point. He held the boning knife out before him.

“I think it’ll do just fine.”

“I have tried to end my own life many times. On many nights, I would pound my head against this steel block until bones cracked. When I still had teeth, I tried gnawing off my own arm to escape into the sunlight. Yet every time the sun set again, I awoke fully healed.”

Colin hesitated. The knife handle was sweaty, uncomfortable. He wondered where Butts was.

“My death must come from a wooden stake through my heart, or, in lieu of that, you must sever my head and separate it from my shoulders.” Van Helsing wiped away a long line of drool that leaked down his chin. “Do not be afraid. I am hungry, yes, but I am still strong enough to fight the urge. I will not resist.”

The old man knelt, lifting his chin. Colin brought the blade to his throat. Van Helsing’s neck was thin, dry, like rice paper. One good slice would do it.

“I want to die, Mr. Willoughby. Please.”

Hand trembling, Colin set his jaw and sucked in air through his teeth.

But he couldn’t do it.

“Sorry, mate. I —”

“Then I shall!”

Van Helsing sprung to his feet, tearing the knife away from Colin. With animal ferocity he began to hack at his own neck, slashing through tissue and artery, blood pumping down his translucent chest in pulsing waterfalls.

Colin took a step back, the gorge rising.

Van Helsing screamed, an inhuman cry that made Colin go rigid with fear. The old man’s head cocked at a funny angle, tilting to the side. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, exposing the whites. But still he continued, slashing away at the neck vertebrae, buried deep within his bleeding flesh like a white peach pit.

Colin vomited, unable to pull his eyes away.

“He’s going to make it,” Colin thought, incredulous. “He’s going to cut off his own head.”

But it wasn’t to be. Just as the knife plunged into the bone of his spine, Van Helsing went limp, sprawling face first onto the dirt.

Colin stared, amazed. The horror, the violence of what he just witnessed, pressed down upon him like a great weight. After a few minutes, his breathing slowed to normal, and he found his mind again.

Colin reached tentatively for the knife, still clutched in Van Helsing’s hand. The gore gave him pause.

“Go ahead and keep it,” Colin decided. “I’ll buy another one when —”

Alarm jolted through Colin. He realized, all at once, that Butts hadn’t returned. Had the bugger run off with the jewelry box?

Colin sped up the ladder, panicked.

“Butts!”

No answer.

Using the torch, he followed Butts’s tracks in the dust, into the bedroom, and then back out the front door. Colin swung it open.

“Butts! Butts, you son of a whore!”

No reply.

Colin sprinted into the night. He ran fast as he could, hoping that his direction was true, screaming and cursing Butts between labored breaths.

His foot caught on a protruding root and Colin went sprawling forward, skidding on his chin, his torch flying off into the woods and sizzling out in a bog.

Blackness.

The dark was complete, penetrating. Not even the moon and stars were visible.

It felt like being in the grave.

Colin, wracked by claustrophobia, once again called out for Butts.

The forest swallowed up his voice.

Fear set in. Without a torch, Colin would never find his way back to Heysham. Wandering around the woods without fire or shelter, he could easily die of exposure.

Colin got back on his feet, but walking was impossible. On the rough terrain, without being able to see, he had no sense of direction. He tried to head back to the house, but couldn’t manage a straight line.

After falling twice more, Colin gave up. Exhausted, frightened, and wracked with the pain of withdrawal, he curled up at the base of large tree and let sleep overtake him.

“This better be it, Butts.”

“We’re almost there. I swear on it.”

Colin opened his crusty eyes, attempted to find his bearings.

He was surrounded by high grass, next to a giant elm. The sun peeked through the canopy at an angle; it was either early morning or late afternoon.

“You’ve been saying that for three hours, you little wank. You need a little more encouragement to find this place?”

“I’m not holding out on you, Willie. Don’t hit me again.”

Colin squinted in the direction of the voices. Butts and two others. They weren’t street people, either. Both wore clean clothes, good shoes. The smaller one, Willie, had a bowler hat and a matching black vest. The larger sported a beard, along with a chest big as a whiskey barrel.

Butts had taken on some partners.

Colin tried to stand, but felt weak and dizzy. He knelt for a moment, trying to clear his head. When the cobwebs dissipated, he began to trail the trio.

“Tell us again, Butts, how much loot there is in this place.”

“It’s crammed full, Jake. All that old, antiquey stuff. I’m telling you, that jewelry box was just a taste.”

“Better be, Butts, or you’ll be wearing your yarbles around your filthy neck.”

“I swear, Willie. You’ll see. We’re almost there.”

Colin stayed ten yards back, keeping low, moving quiet. Several times he lost sight of them, but they were a loud bunch and easy to track. His rage grew with each step.

This house was his big break, his shot at a better life. He didn’t want to share it with anybody. He may have choked when trying to off Van Helsing, but when they arrived at the house, Colin vowed to kill them all.

“Hey, Willie. Some bloke is following us.”

“Eh?”

“In the woods. There.”

Colin froze. The man named Jake stared, pointing through the brush.

“Who’s there, then? Don’t make me run you down.”

“That’s Colin. He came here with me.”

Damned Butts.

“He knows about this place? Jake, go get the little bleeder!”

Colin ran, but Jake was fast. Within moments the bigger man caught Colin’s arm and threw him to the ground.

“Trying to run from me, eh?”

A swift kick caught Colin in the ribs, searing pain stealing his breath.

“I hate running. Hate it.”

Another kick. Colin groaned. Bright spots swirled in his vision.

“Get up, wanker. Let’s go talk to Willie.”

Jake grabbed Colin by the ear and tugged him along, dumping him at Willie’s feet.

“Why didn’t you tell us about your mate, Butts?”

“I thought he’d gone. I swear it.”

Jake let loose with another kick. Colin curled up fetal, began to cry.

“Should we kill him, Willie?”

“Not yet. We might need an extra body, help take back some of the loot. You hear me, you drug-addled bastard? We’re going to keep you around for awhile, as long as you’re helpful.”

Butts knelt next to Colin and smiled, brown teeth flashing. “Get up, Colin. They’re not going to kill you.” He helped Colin gain his footing, keeping a steady arm around his shoulders until they arrived at the house.

In the daylight, the house’s aristocratic appearance was overtaken by the many apparent flaws; peeling paint, cracked foundation, sunken roof. Even the stately iron work covering the windows looked drab and shabby.

“This place is a dump.” Willie placed a finger on one nostril and blew the contents of his nose onto a patch of clover.

“It’s better on the inside,” encouraged Butts. “You’ll see.”

Unfortunately, the inside was even less impressive. The dust-covered furniture Colin had pegged as antique was damaged and rotting.

“You call this treasure?” Willie punched Butts square in the nose.

Butts dropped to the floor, bleeding and hysterical.

“This is good stuff, Willie! It’ll clean up nice! Worth a couple thousand quid, I swear!”

Willie and Jake walked away from Butts, and he crawled behind them, babbling.

A moment later, Colin was alone.

The pain in his ribs sharpened with every intake of breath.

If he made a run for it, they’d catch him easily. But if he did nothing, he was a dead man.

He needed a weapon.

Colin crept into the kitchen, mindful of the creaking floorboards. Perhaps the drawers contained a weapon or some kind.

“What you doing in here, eh? Nicking silver?” Jake slapped him across the face.

Colin staggered back, his feet becoming rubber. Then the floor simply ceased to be there. He dropped, straight down, landing on his arse at the bottom of the root cellar.

Everything went fuzzy, and then black.

Colin awoke in darkness.

He felt around, noticed his leg bent at a funny angle.

The touch made him cry out.

Broken. Badly, from the size of the swelling.

Colin peeled his eyes wide, tried to see. There was no light at all. The trap door, leading to the kitchen, was closed. Not that it mattered; he couldn’t have climbed up the ladder anyway.

He sat up, tears erupting onto his cheeks. There was a creaking sound above him, and then a sudden burst of light.

“I see you’re still alive, eh?”

Colin squinted through the glare, made out the bowler hat.

“No worries, mate. We won’t let you starve to death down there. We’re not barbarians. Willie will be down shortly to finish you off. Promise it’ll be quick. Right Willie?”

Willie’s laugh was an evil thing.

“See you in a bit.”

The trap door closed.

Fear rippled through Colin, but it was overwhelmed by something greater.

Anger.

Colin had ever been the victim. From his boyhood days, being beaten by his alcoholic father, up to his nagging ex-wife, suing him into the recesses of poverty.

Well, if his miserable life was going to end here, in a foul smelling dirt cellar, then so be it.

But he wasn’t going without a fight.

Colin pulled himself along the cold ground, dragging his wounded leg. He wanted the boning knife, the one he’d left curled in Van Helsing’s hand.

When Jake came down to finish him off, the fat bastard was going to get a nice surprise.

Colin’s hand touched moisture, blood or some other type of grue, so he knew he was close. He reached into the inky blackness, finding Van Helsing’s body, trailing down over his shoulder…

“What in the hell?”

Colin brought his other hand over, groped around.

It made no sense.

Van Helsing’s head, which had been practically severed from his shoulders, had reattached itself. The neck was completely intact. No gaping wound, no deep cut.

“Can’t be him.”

Perhaps another body had been dumped down there, possibly Butts. Colin touched the face.

No beard.

Grazing the mouth with his fingers, Colin winced and stuck a digit past the clammy lips.

It was cold and slimy inside the mouth. Revolting. But Colin probed around for almost an entire minute, searching for teeth that weren’t there.

This was Van Helsing. And he had completely healed.

Which was impossible. Unless —

“Jesus Christ.” Colin recoiled, scooting away from the body.

He was trapped in the dark with a vampire.

When would Van Helsing awake? Damn good thing the bloke was chained down. Who knows what horrors he could commit if he were free?

Colin repeated that thought, and grinned.

Perhaps if he helped the poor sod escape, Van Helsing would be so grateful he’d take care of the goons upstairs.

The idea vanished when Colin remembered Van Helsing’s words. All the poor sod wanted was to die. He didn’t want to kill anyone.

“Bloody hell. If I were a vampire, I’d do things —”

Colin halted mid-sentence. His works were in a sardine can, inside his breast pocket. He reached for them, took out the hypo.

It just might work.

Crawling back to Van Helsing, Colin probed until he found the bony neck. He pushed the needle in, then eased back the plunger, drawing out blood.

Vampire blood.

Tying off his own arm and finding his vein in the dark wasn’t a problem; he’d done it many times before.

Teeth clenched, eyes shut, he gave himself the shot.

But there was no rush.

Only pain.

The pain seared up his arm, as if someone was yanking out his veins with pliers.

Colin cried out. When the tainted blood reached his heart, the muscle stopped cold, killing him instantly.

Colin opened his eyes.

He was still in the cellar, but he could see perfectly fine. He wondered where the light could be coming from, but a quick look around found no source.

Colin stood, realizing with a start that the pain in his leg had vanished.

So, in fact, had all of his other pain. He lifted his shirt, expecting to see bruised ribs, but there wasn’t a mark on them.

Even the withdrawal symptoms had vanished.

The hypodermic was still in his hand. Colin stared at it, remembering.

“It worked. It bloody well worked.”

Van Helsing still lay sprawled out on the floor, face down.

Colin looked at him, and he began to drool. Hunger surged through him, an urge so completely overwhelming it dwarfed his addiction to heroin.

Without resisting the impulse, he fell to the ground and bit into the old man’s neck. His new teeth tore through the skin easily, but when his tongue touched blood, Colin jerked away.

Rancid. Like spoiled milk.

A sound, from above. Colin listened, amused at how acute his hearing had become.

“All right, then. Jake, you go downstairs and mercy kill the junkie, and then we’ll be off.”

Mercy kill, indeed.

Colin forced himself to be patient, standing stock-still, as the trap door opened and a figure descended.

“Well well well, look who’s up and about. Be brave, I’ll try to make it painless.”

Jake moved forward. Colin almost grinned. Big, sweating, dirty Jake smelled delicious.

“You got some fight left in you, eh?”

Colin lunged.

His speed was unnatural; he was on Jake in an instant. Even more astounding was his strength. Using almost no effort at all, he pulled the larger man to the ground and pinned down his arms.

“What the hell?”

“I’ll try to make it painless,” Colin said.

But from the sound of Jake’s screams, it wasn’t painless at all.

This blood wasn’t rancid. This blood was ecstasy.

Every cell in Colin’s body shuddered with pleasure; an overwhelming rush that dwarfed the feeling of heroin, a full body orgasm so intense he couldn’t control the moan escaping his throat.

He sucked until Jake stopped moving. Until his stomach distended, the warm liquid sloshing around inside him like a full term embryo.

But he remained hungry.

He raced up the ladder, practically floating on his newfound power. Butts stood at the table, piling dishes into a wooden crate.

“Colin?”

Butts proved delicious, too. In a slightly different way. Not as sweet, sort of a Bordeaux to Jake’s Cabernet. Colin’s tongue was a wild thing. He lapped up the blood like a mad dog at a water dish, ravenous.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Colin let Butts drop, whirling to face Willie.

“Good God!”

Willie reached into his vest, removed a small Derringer. He fired twice, both shots tearing into Colin’s chest.

There was pain.

But more than pain, there was hunger.

Willie turned to run, but Colin caught him easily.

“I wonder what you’ll taste like,” he whispered in the screaming man’s ear.

Honeysuckle mead. The best of the three.

Colin suckled, gulping down the nectar as it pulsed from Willie’s carotid. He gorged himself until one more swallow would have caused him to burst.

Then, in an orgiastic stupor, he stumbled from the house and into the glorious night.

No longer dark and silent and scary, the air now hummed with a bright glow, and animal sounds from miles away were clear and lovely.

Bats, chasing insects. A wolf, baying the moon. A tree toad, calling out to its mate.

Such sweet, wonderful music.

The feeling overwhelmed Colin, and he shuddered and wept. This is what he’d been searching for his entire life. This was euphoria. This was power. This was a fresh start.

“I see you have been busy.”

Colin spun around.

Van Helsing stood at the entrance to the house. His right hand still gripped Colin’s bone knife. His left hand was gone, severed above the wrist where the chain had bound him. The stump dripped gore, jagged white bone poking out.

Colin studied Van Helsing’s face. Still sunken, still anguished. But there was something new in the eyes. A spark.

“Happy, old man? You finally have your freedom.”

“Freedom is not what I seek. I desire only the redemption that comes with death.”

Colin grinned, baring the sharp tips of his new fangs.

“I’ll be happy to kill you, if you want.”

Van Helsing frowned.

“The lineage of nosferatu ends now, Mr. Willoughby. No more may be allowed to live. I have severed the heads of the ones inside the house. Only you and I remain.”

Colin laughed, blood dripping from his lips.

“You mean to kill me? With that tiny knife? Don’t you sense my power, old man? Don’t you see what I have become?” Colin spread out his arms, reaching up into the night. “I have been reborn!”

Colin opened wide, fangs bared to tear flesh. But something in Van Helsing’s face, some awful fusion of hate and determination, made Colin hesitate.

Van Helsing closed the distance between them with supernatural speed, plunging the knife deep into Colin’s heart.

Colin fell, gasping. The agony was exquisite. He tried to speak, and blood — his own rancid blood — bubbled up sour in his throat.

“Not…not…wood.”

“No, Mr. Willoughby, this is not a wooden stake. It will not kill you. But the damage should be substantial enough to keep you here for an hour or so.”

Van Helsing drove the knife further, puncturing the back of Colin’s rib cage, pinning him to the ground.

“I have been waiting sixty years to end this nightmare, and I am tired. So very tired. With our destruction, my wait shall finally be over. May God have mercy on our souls.”

Colin tried to rise, but the pain brought tears.

Van Helsing rolled off, and sat, cross-legged, on the old cobblestone road. He closed his eyes, his thin, colorless lips forming a serene smile.

“I have not seen a sunrise in sixty years, Mr. Willoughby. I remember them to be very beautiful. This should be the most magnificent of them all.”

Colin began to scream.

When sunrise came, it cleansed like fire.