Disclaimer: I don't own Van helsing, the man or the movie. And I don't wish to. After all, they can't all be Jack Sparrow. No, Dracula is the one I want. I'm just borrowing him for a bit.

------------------------------------------------------------Prologue

Transylvania, 1750

A woman sat alone by herself at a small wooden table. The room where she sat was dark and silent, unlit by any lamp or fire. A coldness pervaded the walls and settled over the room, gradually becoming stronger as the night intensified.

The woman said nothing, whether to herself or to anything else, for there was nothing left to say. Fervently, she rubbed her thin fingers over a small wooden crucifix, her lips silently forming the words of a prayer as she cowered there. She stared fixedly at the window in the wall in front of her - it was open, and the curtains were drawn completely back to reveal the calm indigo sky of night. Clouds billowed and massed in the heavens where no star shone and just through their thin vaporous sheen could be seen the ghostly shape of the moon.

The night was not still. An eerie wind blew back and forth through the window of the room where the woman sat, lifting the curtains and tossing them a little, so slightly that they seemed to move of their own accord. In the distance an owl screeched; somewhere within the heart of the blackened forest, it had found its prey.

A sudden breeze came through the trees with a low, sad moan. The woman did not hardly blink. Her fingers worked faster over the crucifix in her hands and her pulse sped up but she did not move from her spot. Then everything fell silent.

The curtains stirred.

With a burst of light the moon came drifting out from behind the clouds, its blue aura streaming through the window of the room. Like a sentient being it hung there, leeringly, in the sky. Clearly it shone, a magnificent fullness of the moon, its shape reflecting off of the seated woman's eyes.

The prayer died on her lips, and she blanched.

"It is time," she whispered.

Over the dark line of the mountains in the distance, a small black dot came soaring. Steadily it gained speed and size as it neared. Closer and closer it flew, higher and higher into the sky, intent on its course and never wavering an instant in its approach. The woman did not see it coming, but instinctively she seemed to realize its presence. She trembled, like a frail and fragile flower in the face of a storm, and her eyes filled with tears as she stared sadly up into the sky.

The dot vanished among the exfoliating masses in the sky.

All was still.

"For those that walk with the devil..." the woman utterred weakly, "Must pay the price."

A dark shadow moved behind the clouds, circling the moon like a ghostly phantom.

"I must pay my price."

Suddenly the shadow broke free and soared in front of the moon, a creature beyond all comprehension, like a bat. It beat its enormous wings one time and soared straight in the direction of the little house and the room where the woman sat. She watched it approach, calmly, though her face was full of sadness and tears. The great creature loomed outside of the window and materialized into the room.

Now it was a man, clad entirely in black. His eyes glistened.

"Hello, Franjeska," he said softly. The woman slowly raised her eyes to meet his gaze, but said nothing.

The man paced slowly around the table and came up behind her.

"The witches are talking, Franjeska," he hissed in her ear. "They are talking about you. I don't like when they talk about you like that."

Franjeska did not reply.

"They are saying things, dear one," the man continued, his voice bitter. "I don't like what they are saying. They say that you wish to end..." he kissed her hair, and her neck, "...our love."

A silent tear slid slowly down Franjeska's face. Finally she spoke.

"They speak truly."

The man hissed and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck making her wince in pain. "They cannot speak truly as you say. You cannot end it."

Franjeska glared up at him through her tears. "I can," she muttered through gritted teeth, "And I intend to do it tonight."

The man looked at her, then suddenly he laughed and released her neck.

"You show much courage, to speak to me thus," he grinned, pacing over to the fireplace at the left of the room, "But unfortunately, you have no power over me. I chose you, Franjeska, to be my bride, and you cannot resist."

Franjeska rose slowly from her chair and turned to face her tormentor, at the same time drawing a glistening dagger from behind her back.

"I resist."

The man's face froze.

"if you do that," he threatened, an edge in his voice, "I will only do unto your offspring as I have done unto you." Franjeska smiled knowingly at him.

"Unfortunately, that is impossible. The witches have placed a charm on my daughter to protect her from you. By the time it carries no power, she will hold knowledge sufficient to resist your temptations."

The man took a menacing step forward.

"I will bite you: I will sink my teeth into your mortality just as I sink them into your flesh," he said. "You are powerless against me."

Franjeska held the dagger up before the enraged gaze of the pitiless vampire. "No I am not," she whispered, and plunged the metal into her heart. With a cry of rage, the man leapt at her and caught her as she fell, burying his teeth into her neck. Blood streamed out of both wounds on her body, and the life eeked out of it. The vampire felt her blood on his tongue, warm and thick, and burning.

He drew back and stared into the woman's water-clear eyes. She smiled at him, blood staining her lips dark in the moonlight.

"Silver: the dagger was silver," Franjeska told him in a quivering voice, managing a small triumphant laugh as her breath shortened out, "To prevent you from bringing me back."

"You've thought of everything," the vampire grimaced. Franjeska nodded.

"I have done evil to cavort with the undead," she whispered faintly. "I cannot escape my judgment. Farewell, . . . Vladislaus . . . Dracula. . ."

Her voice trailed off and as Dracula held her, she died, a smile on her lips and a look of peace on her face. Her body hung limp in his arms and her head bent downwards so that her thick hair lay in a silky pile on the floor. The vampire watched as her pure red blood trickled from her neck and onto her white cheek, inching into the corner of her mouth. He felt nothing.

There was nothing but emptiness inside him just as he had no soul.

He lifted up his head and screamed a loud, terrible shriek of misery and dire anguish, not that Franjeska had died but because he was incapable of remorse.

In the little town not far away, every person heard that scream. They awoke, and trembled in fear though they did not even know what had happened. Dracula vanished from all knowledge from that day forth. Some people swore that he had died, that the Devil had finally let him rest for ever...but others swore that he still walked the fields, under cover of night. They said that he was waiting alone in his tower for something to happen.

And thus time passed.

Dracula was waiting.

R&R!