An old man, one of obvious European descent, stumbled out of a boarding house, taking weak and forced steps through the streets. As he started down the streets, he clutched his chest, as though struggling to breath. His flesh, where once it had been the eternally young body of a warrior had withered and wrinkled, and his once luxurious hair had been shifted into a long, stringy mass of sickly grey hairs that had begun to recede near his forehead. The smothering mist had twisted the Son of the Dragon beyond recognition; a hawk like nose now graced his face, his back had hunched over, and his near skeletal arms seemed unable to lift a spoon, let alone a blade.
Staggering through the city, fighting for every step, he was shocked to see that now the heathens the count passed by no longer feared his presence as they once had. Confidant as ever despite the sudden influx of entropy in his flesh, Dracula tried to force a pair of street folk having a conversation to get out of his way. Two frail seeming arms grabbed the men and tried to push them away, but it yielded nothing. The men turned around, and laughed. One pushed Dracula back, sending the vampire stumbling backwards, falling on to the ground with a hiss. As he tried to get back to his feet, the men only laughed harder, joined by other denizens of the streets. Every cackle inflamed Dracula's stolen blood, narrowing his eyes as he glared balefully at the ruffians. This only spurred them to laugh harder.
"Bastards," the vampire muttered, spitting the word out with as much caustic venom as he could use.
"And what are you going to do about it, old fool?" the larger of the two hooligans asked sarcastically with another laugh, "Call upon the British to punish us? Or are you going to give us a sound a thrashing?"
Dracula's gaze only grew more hateful as the rest of the street's population began taking notice of the situation. Even as he started to return to his feet, the tainted spark of undeath creating the only energy the count had left, laughter continued to echo through the shadows cast by the ancient city. The enraged vampire gazed at the ever increasing number of detractors surrounding him.
"I need no soldiers to punish you worms!" Dracula tried to shout, but all that emerged was a raspy hissing, the sound only the elderly and infirm could make. This only further amused the hecklers and hooligans, their laughter reaching a fever pitch. Gasping for breath from the effort expended in trying to shout, Dracula had no choice but to limp away in shame, this night already having proved to be his greatest shame since he had died the first time. His sunken eyes burned only with a hatred the living could never know, even as his body seemed to weaken with every step. The count paid no heed to the aches and pains he felt, fueling his every movement with the desire for survival and revenge.
By the time he had returned to his rented tenement and temporary haven from the light of day, Dracula was exhausted, even if his animated corpse felt no need to catch its breath. Bony hands pulled back and released the door's knocker, and again after the now aged immortal realized he was probably left unheard. When Renfield answered the door, his expression quickly shifted to one of confusion. This ragged old man had his beloved master's ring and clothes, but his master appeared much younger than even Renfield, let alone this nearly dead husk of a man. He only stared down at the creature at the door, trying figure this out without his master's aid.
"Renfield!" the old man snapped weakly at his befuddled servant, to which Renfield gasped. Inwardly, the count caught himself wishing again that he had left some capacity for independent thought in this foolish underling.
"M-m-master?" Renfield said, his voice laced with fear.
"Well, I'm glad you finally figured it out," Dracula said bitterly, "Now, help me to the wine cellar. Unless you'd rather save me the effort of walking down there and allow me to drain you dry right here."
Renfield only yelped, before helping his master up with a shudder. For Renfield, he was simply helping his master, the greatest man to ever walk these heathen filled lands, recover after he was attacked, although the servant couldn't quite guess what had attacked his master. Dracula, however, found the entire experience of needing the aid of a human, and Renfield of all humans, a bitter and painful one. Not even when he was held as a hostage by the Sultan of the accursed Turks in his living days had he been so helpless. In the centuries that had passed his death and unholy rebirth, he had always been forcing his will upon others, whether through manipulation, combat, or supernatural ability. And here he was, reduced to begging others for aid in forcing his will upon his own body. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the count turned to Renfield with a stern gaze.
"Renfield, I've got a job for you. Now listen carefully, because if you fail me in this task, you will find your way to the wine cellar. I want you to follow Professor Rafik Mrad. My notes on him are on my desk. I want to know where he goes and who he associates with, and you are not be seen while you are following him. You will return to his tenement once by dusk and give me every bit of information you acquired. Is that clear, Refield?"
"Yes, master," Renfield replied with a nervous gulp, before scrambling up the stairs to carry out his masters bidding. Dracula chuckled at the sight, inwardly musing about how much Renfield reminded him of a well trained hound. He then started heading deeper into the cellar, sniffing the air, the scent of blood heavy in the air. To a human, it would have been disgusting; to a vampire it was as sweet as honey. His brides were, as he had been expecting, still in the wine cellar, waiting for Verona to heal. Aleera was leaning against the wall, seeming bored. Marishka was hunched over the now cold body of a whore her master had seduced into the wine cellar. Verona it seemed was preoccupied with her steadily closing wounds. She would be ready to fly tomorrow night, or so Dracula estimated.
"Lovelies," Dracula croaked out, even his voice giving away his frail condition in the otherwise darkened room.
"Master?" Aleera said excitedly. Or maybe it was Marishka. To Dracula's ears, all three of the harpies were beginning to sound the same. He blamed his rapidly aged body, but he knew that on some level his distaste of them was also at fault.
"Yes my brides, I've returned. And I hunger now more than ever before. Would one of you ladies pass me a drink?"
Aleera got up off the ground, and dragged a woman, another obvious whore out of a cramped cell and over towards Dracula. The woman tried to scream, but a gag prevented her from being heard. Despite her struggles, the vampire overpowered her and presented her to Dracula. All her squirming earned her was sadistic laughter from the other two brides.
The count's sunken eyes turned blood red as he eyed the woman, her own eyes wide with fear. In the darkened cellar, only the monster's eyes could be seen by his victim. But the feel of clawed hands as cold as ice encircling her arms was quite distinct. The harlot's heartbeat sped up, and her thrashing grew ever more frantic. She tried to plead with the monster, but to no effect. As Dracula's fangs sank into her neck, she screamed one last time before the dead prince began to feed. He drank from her as fast as he could steal her blood, almost as if he had never savored the taste of blood before. He became an animal, lost in a brutal feeding frenzy, siphoning every last drop of the woman's blood on instinct.
Even as he lost himself in the taste of blood, Dracula's thoughts could only focus on vengeance. He thirsted for vengeance upon the ruffians who had hassled him in the streets and upon this damned city and all that lurked in its shadows. But most of all, he lusted to extract revenge upon the fiend called Rafik Mrad. For the first time since the gypsy mystic's prediction, the prince of Transylvania's nights was convinced that there was a power that could destroy him unless he could send it to hell first.