Prologue: Dreyfus Rising

We are strong in the Lord and the power of His might! We are strong in the Lord and the power of His might! We are strong in the Lord and the power of His might!" the old priest said, raising the cross higher; as high as his arms could go, "The power of God is upon us!"

The she-demon shrieked. It backed away into a corner and slid into its resting place.

"We are strong in the Lord and the power of His might! Ex umbris in lucem!"

The younger priest gripped the stake tighter in his hand until it almost bled. He wasn't as young as he used to be, but the thrill was still there after so many years of doing what he did best—and loved best. He was about to stake another vampire.

"I bring you from shadow into light! I cast you out, the Prince of Darkness, into Hell!"

Another ear-piercing shriek. In manus tuas Domine, the younger thought. Then silence.

"You know vat to do," the older priest said, turning to the younger.

"Yes, Monsignor," returned the younger of the two. Taking the stake, he placed its point over the creature's heart and prepared to strike. Father Van Helsing raised the heavy mallet and brought it down again, pounding the stake, driving it deeper into the corpse. A fountain of blood erupted as he did so. He hammered away with all his strength. Blood was everywhere. It emanated from the creature's heart like a spring. Like a well when it is first dug. Pools of blood almost flooded the coffin, pouring from the wound in the vampire's chest and from her mouth. She had just fed.

With one blow, the creature's head was severed from its body.

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"Mein Gott!" Father Van Helsing said in his thick Dutch accent, as he threw an edition of the day's paper down on Father Hristo Shopov's mahogany desk, "Ten deaths and transformations in only seven days! What could this mean?"

"Zere is eveel to be stopped," Father Shopov answered. He picked up the paper and read. More deaths were expected, the report said. A new contagion, it was called. Many had theorized that it was due to bats or rats and mice. Some said it was dogs. But only two priests meeting behind closed doors knew the secret.

"What could this mean?" Father Van Helsing repeated as he paced back and forth, "What could this mean?"

"Draculae is on the move," Father Shopov said, with a slow nod of his head.

"We are but two. We certainly cannot vanquish all his minions."

"You, like our father Saint Peter, look to the waves and not on the Master."

"I am not losing heart, Monsignor. Only that it is unwise to fight with only two men."

"Have you forgotten, Damian? The battle is the Lord's! We walk by faith and not by sight," this he said in Rumanian—a language Van Helsing was fluent in.

"Yes, yes, I know that! But we need more men to do the task. There is a lot to be done. We are old. We need the young. The stout of heart. I confess my strength fails me of late."

"You are right. I shall look for Harker's living relatives."

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Troy, Michigan.

"And how's my little tick turd doing tonight?" Bill Sass said, on the other line.

"Dad! Will you please stop calling me that?" Melissa said, a little peeved. Well, a little would be an understatement.

"Alright, I'm sorry, honey. It's just that I've never heard you laugh after those two breakups you've had. What's the name of the guy who broke your heart? Jerome?"

"Dad, please! He didn't break my heart! It was my decision, alright? I broke his heart. And I've been apologizing ever since."

She sighed. Silence.

"I'm sorry. Alright, sweetheart. Daddy's gonna hang up now. But if you ever want to talk about John—the second guy—"

"Dad! Enough! Alright? Look, Dad, I'm sorry. For acting like this."

"I understand, sweetie. I understand. Completely. No hard feelings."

"Really? No hard feelings?"

"Really. You know Daddy loves you, sweetheart."

"I love you too, Dad."

What was that? Was that a shadow? Melissa thought. She had caught something out of the corner of her eye. It loomed. It seemed large and dark, ready to engulf her. She was frozen.

"Uh, Dad? I gotta go. Looks like I'm not the only one here."

"Is it John? Tell me and I'll—"

"No, Dad. Please. I think it's a burglar."

"You know where your pepper spray is?"

"Yes, Dad, yes! I know! Alright? I'm 28. I can take care of myself."

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Tell our story…Christian… Promise me."

"No, no," Christian said, sobbing, as Satine lay dying in his arms.

"Yes. That way, I…I'll always…be with you."

A knock on the door interrupted Jerome Harker, who was watching his favorite musical Moulin Rouge.

Great, he said, grumbling to himself. Then he realized it was almost the end. What the hell! Might as well pause it and see who it is. It's the end, anyway. He got up to open the door. To his surprise, it was his ex-girlfriend Melissa Sass.

"If you're going to talk about us—Melissa?" he said. He was going to say that if she was going to talk about the two of them, she could leave now. But he saw that she was shaking.

"Wh-what happened?"

"Get your pad and pen. There's been a murder at my place," she said, her voice shaking.

"What have you done?"

"Not me, you idiot! You think I'd kill an elderly neighbor?" she said, bursting into tears. She was so terrified. He gathered her in his arms for the first time in months and let her cry on his shoulder like she used to do. When she had calmed down, he got dressed and called the paper.

"Chief, there's been a murder. No, Chief, she was on old woman. No enemies." Turning to Melissa, he said, "Was there any foul play?"

"No, no blood."

"No blood? What the heck do you mean no blood? Was she strangled?"

"I don't know, okay? I don't know!"

"Alright, I'm sorry. Yes, Chief, I'm still here. She says there was no blood."

"But there certainly was a wound."

"A wound," Jerome repeated, "There was a wound—"

"Wounds."

"So there were wounds but no blood."

"No blood."

"Harker, you've got the job! Now go do your thing and don't fuck it up!" the chief said.

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A week later, Jerome Harker was still following up on the trail of the murderer; following up on the developments of the case. What started with one now became a string of murders. There was no blood, indeed, and there were two puncture marks on the victims' necks.

Vampires? he thought, Ridiculous!

But what was this? The body had been stolen from the morgue according to the last contact Jerome checked with. Stolen? By whom? Why would the murderer want to take the body? Wouldn't that incriminate him all the more? Is he hiding something? Something so important that the body had to be stolen? Nothing was sinking in! Could the corpse have gotten up and walked off by itself? It was impossible! Fuck, he thought, We're in the 21st century, not the 18th, 19th, or 20th centuries! Nobody believes this crap. Maybe the murderer does. Wanted to get away with the murder and poof! What better way than to frame someone else! But why blame it on someone or something that didn't even exist? Or maybe he's crazy. Maybe he thinks he's a vampire. Or maybe he is a real—stop it!

He and the detective he talked to last had the same theory. It might've been an ice pick. An ice pick would have the same look as a classic vampire bite from a horror movie. Two puncture holes. But why no blood? Where did it all go? He soon dismissed the idea of an ice pick.

"Harker! Harker!" Jerome's editor hollered from his office, "In here! Now!"

He didn't like his train of thought being interrupted, but it might be important. New developments, perhaps?

"Yes, Chief?" he said, knocking on the door jamb.

"I've got a new assignment for you, Harker. Leave your current assignment with McDonald! Let him handle it."

"Yes, sir. What exactly is this about?"

"Our New York bureau has just informed me that a similar murder has been committed. Same M.O., same marks, no blood. And a missing victim, according to sources. Same as all the other victims here."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir. A what! Missing?"

"According to some sources, there's no victim. Somebody stole the body from the morgue. And don't bother about the ticket. I've already got you one."

"Thank you, sir."

Might be the same guy, Jerome thought.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mercy General Hospital

New York City, NY.

"You know, a hospital is sorta like a candy store," Antonio the new intern said.

"A what?" Rosebud said, cutting him off.

"For a vampire, I mean. So many blood types. There's A, there's AB, there's O—"

"Okay. Shut up."

Naomi Rosebud Seward was a nurse. Medically minded. No-nonsense. She came from a long line of doctors, a line that went back to the 1800s. One of her ancestors was a British psychiatrist and surgeon. She dealt in facts. And people like Antonio only served to annoy her. Besides, the guy creeped her out. He was bald—just a buzz cut, actually—not totally bald, piercings all over—which of course, he removed at work, covered in tattoos, and he had been to juvenile hall and to prison a couple of times before he had "changed;" started over with a clean slate. He was Italian. Naturally, he would be involved in the mafia. In fact, he was his uncle's right-hand man before he went to juvie. He was only 13 then.

"Hey, did you know that last week there was—?"

"Yeah, yeah," the nurse said, rather impatiently, "But I don't believe a word of it."

"You saw the ripped bags of blood, the broken glass—"

"Get back to work, will you, Antonio?"

Antonio was right. Rosebud Seward had seen the ripped bags of blood scattered on the floor, the broken refrigerators, their glasses smashed. But it made no sense. Nothing could ever convince her.

"You know there are a lot of crazies here in New York?"

"Oh," Antonio said, "So you consider me one of them crazies? You think I'm one of the locos?"

"You said it, not me," Rosebud said, sarcastically, with a smile. Antonio walked off in a huff. She added when he was far enough, "And do your rounds well!" The other nurses laughed. They saw him make the "up yours" gesture. That only served to make them laugh even more.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

That same night, a Catholic priest was praying fervently in his New York parsonage. He knelt before the cross hanging on his bedroom wall.

"Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed by Thy name—" The cross trembled.

"Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is—" It shook some more.

"…in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our sins—" the cross shook more violently and Jesus' figure flipped, making it look as though he were crucified upside-down—on an inverted cross. The mark of a Satanist!

"And lead us not into temptation—" A shadow passed.

"But deliver us from evil!" This, he said in his native Rumanian. The creature grabbed the old priest by the throat, raised him high in the air, and threw him across the room. Every religious icon either came crashing down or were thrown out the window with a powerful, unseen force.

"I am Dracula!" he said. The priest made the sign of the cross. The creature picked him up and pinned him against the wall. He held his neck and squeezed it tight, suffocating the old man. He rammed the priest's head repeatedly against the wall, smashing it. Blood splattered onto the wall. The smell of blood only served to make the vampire wilder. He was like an untamed beast. He tore his victim's neck with his teeth. He ripped the priest's chest and tore out his heart. Then there was darkness. Utter darkness. And he was gone.

It…is finished! These were the priest's dying thoughts.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Penny for your thoughts?" Detective Hector Rollins said, as he came up behind his partner Detective Rachel Evans.

"Penny for my thoughts?" she repeated, turning around to face him, "Hmm… Penny for my thoughts. Hmph! You'd need Fort Knox for my thoughts." Her brow was creased, and she was smirking sarcastically. That only meant one thing, Hector knew. She was deeply engaged in a problem and it was troubling her. Her sarcastic nature floats to the surface when something was bothering her.

"Still brooding over who killed our vic?" Hector asked.

"Here. Come and take a look at this," she said, motioning for him to stand beside her, "Those bite marks. No disease, no trituration… There's no blood! In all my days as a police officer—as a detective—I've never seen a crime scene like this. In New York, at least. The whole place was clean."

"Maybe our perp is a vampire?" Rollins joked.

"Seriously? We're living in 2009! Not the 1800s."

"Well? There are stuff we can't explain. Right?"

"Well, yeah, but… A vampire?"

"Hey, it's possible. Call me nuts. But I heard at Mercy General, every bag of blood they have there—excuse me—had, is empty. Torn. Sucked dry. The chillers and refrigerators are all smashed and broken."

"Get the car. We're investigating."

"What? I thought you didn't believe in vampires!" Rollins said, just standing there, dumbfounded.

"Did I say I believe? No. It may be the same guy. Some connection. But I'm not saying I think he's a vampire. Maybe he thinks he is one. Now get the car! Let's go!"

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"So," Rosebud was saying, "What brings you here? I mean, how did you come here? Your job, I mean… Sorry. I'm a bit…"

"That's alright," her black-clad guest said, "I understand. Well, I actually came from Topeka. Kansas. Got really, really bored with the place. And with the cows. Moved to New York to teach."

He was charming. He had an effect on Rosebud that was so unexplainable. She hadn't been interested in guys for a long time now. He thought every guy was the same. Always the heartbreaker. But Danny was different. She had no intention of dating around anymore. Then he came into her life.

"So," she said from the kitchen, "What do you teach? What subject?"

"Literature. Mythology. Folklore. Exploring all the different mythos of every time period."

"Interesting. And does that include vampires?" she joked.

He laughed. He actually laughed. "Yes, yes, it does."

"Can I get you anything?"

He was in the kitchen with her now, which startled her.

"Just this," he said, putting two icy hands on her shoulders and turning her around to face him. He leaned in to kiss her and captured her lips with his. God, those lips! So luscious, so warm…so red. If Danny's hands and body were cold, his lips compensated for it by being warm. Rosebud Seward moaned in his mouth. In a minute, half her clothes were on the floor. So was his. She broke the kiss, took his hand in hers and led him to the bedroom in her apartment. She locked the door. She found herself pinned against it, her arms raised, Danny holding them high. From her lips, he made his way down to her neck, down to her shoulders, and lingered at her collar bone. He kissed her chest.

"Danny, wait," she pleaded and removed her bra. It was a front-clasp bra. Both were thankful that it was. Danny traced the shape of her breasts with his cold fingers. It made Rosebud moan.

"Mmmm… Yes…"

She unzipped the back of her skirt and threw it on the bed. Then she removed his pants. Then her panties. She was speechless. Those toned muscles. Those abs. Those ridges. God, he was a beauty. She kissed his chest, kissed lower and lower, going to his abs. In one surprising move, she removed his briefs. She brought him to the bed and slipped under the covers with him.

"Make love to me," she whispered, in the throes of passion.

He entered into her. His shaft was the only other part of his body that was warm, besides his lips.

"Oh, yes! Oh! Danny!" she moaned, enjoying herself. She had never been with a man like this. She had never been loved like this. He was gentle. He treated her like a woman. Danny was a true lover. You wouldn't find that in men these days. But then again, maybe Danny was just like any other guy. All they wanted was the sex. She dismissed the thought. He was different. He was special.

Her moans grew louder as Danny moved in and out of her, her walls squeezing him.

"Oh, God! Danny! Yes! Mmmm…"

She dug her nails into his back. He groped her. She clawed and scratched. And moaned. And scratched. And moaned again. Her breath was ragged. He cupped and massaged her breasts. She breathed heavily in his ear. She seemed to like that. She ran her fingers through his thick black hair. Danny kissed her breasts, her chest, then her neck. He lingered there. It was so white. So warm. He could've sworn he felt the blood rushing through her veins. Pumping.

When she least expected it, Danny bit her neck, sinking his teeth into her soft, warm flesh. Her beautiful neck. At first, Rosebud thought it was part of their lovemaking. After all, they were making hot passionate love to each other. Men and women were both known to do things like that in the throes of passion. But she screamed when his teeth went deep. Deeper still. This wasn't part of it. She could feel the blood going out of her. She threw her head back. Was he drinking her blood? She could've sworn he was. Excess blood dripped from her neck, from Danny's mouth, from his chin. It dripped onto the snow-white sheets on her bed.

Rosebud woke up with a scream. The young nurse was drenched in sweat. Her forehead, her neck, her chest. She was breathing heavily. Instinctively, she felt around for wounds on her neck. Thankful that she found none, she sank back, relieved. But she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn't come. Your listening to Antonio's stories too much, Buds, she told herself, Now get some sleep.

But before she went back to sleep, she had to make sure. She got up and walked to her vanity. It wasn't there. She checked in her dresser. Relieved to find her jewelry box there, she breathed a silent prayer of thanks, slipped a silver crucifix around her neck and went back to bed.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

11:00pm.

Jerome Harker sat up in bed in his motel room, propped up on pillows, his back and head resting against the headboard. On the nightstand was the lampshade, a glass of lukewarm water, and a couple of books which he had picked up at the airport while waiting to board. There were four books on the nightstand. Nights in Rodanthe, The Notebook, The Fellowship of the Ring, and the fourth, a book of family secrets. An ancestor's journal. It was leather-bound, worn out, and it smelled of mold, dust, and mildew. Old and musty. The way things smell when stored for too long in a chest in either the attic or the basement. On the cover was written in gold letters: Jonathan Harker's Journal. Beneath it, like a subtitle, were the words: With Excerpts of Accounts from Prof. Abraham Van Helsing, et.al.

He picked up the journal and read. Jonathan Harker's Journal. 3 May…Bistritz. He went no further and closed the book, putting it aside. He picked up Nicholas Sparks' Nights in Rodanthe. He had read most of his books. A Walk To Remember, Message in a Bottle, The Notebook…

Nights in Rodanthe and The Notebook were his favorites, though. Like Noah from The Notebook, he was sweet, charming, shy… He was also a poet like him. A dreamer. A hopeless romantic. Melissa once said that that was what made her fall in love with him. He smirked and shook his head. Did Melissa really fall in love with him or was she just in love with the idea of falling in love with him? Why would she go back to her ex-boyfriend, then later, date another man? She had lied about getting back together with her ex. She didn't get back with him. He had dated John.

Jerome was thinking of her when his phone rang. He thought it was Melissa. He was mistaken.

"Mr. Harker?" came a female voice. But it was not Melissa's.

"Yes?"

"It's me, Nic."

"Nic… Nic? Nic?" he said, trying to remember, "Oh, yes! Nic from the New York bureau, right?"

"That's right."

"What can I do for you?"

"There's been a gruesome murder at a local parish here."

"Where? Give me the address."

Nic dictated it to him and he scribbled it on his pad with a golf pencil.

"Did you say gruesome?"

"We think it's the same guy. But it's bloody this time around. I think the suspect just changed his MO to confuse authorities. Some criminals do that. They change MOs to baffle police."

"No, no, that… That can't be. Criminals never change their MO. They have the same MO everywhere they go. They always stick to whatever MO they have."

"It could be an accomplice."

"Maybe."

"Hey, you're the reporter. It's for you to figure out. I just help."

Laughter.

"Thanks. I'll get to it."

Jerome Harker got dressed quickly and thought, Goodbye, Nights in Rodanthe. So long, Notebook. Hello, workday!

But he loved his job. He wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

"So, where are you from, originally?" Hector Rollins asked his partner as they drove back to the lab. They had just inspected the broken refrigerators. It was like the crime scene of a gruesome murder. Whoever—whatever—did this thing had taken all the blood. The bags were ripped, glasses smashed, but the assailant had left traces of blood. Maybe he couldn't finish it all. Or maybe they had dripped from his mouth. The detectives needed a distraction. Hence, conversation.

"Dallas, Texas," Detective Rachel Evans answered, pride in her voice, "Born and raised, partner! I'm a proud and purebred Texan."

"Whoa! I'd better not piss you off."

"Ever wondered why I'm good with a gun?" Evans said with a smirk.

"That explains it. I used to wonder why."

"Now you know. But we—the women in our family—we can be feminine, too. If we want to."

"Now I know."

Their conversation was cut short, however, by a call from the 118th precinct. It was a homicide. A priest had just recently been murdered. Another case? Who knows? Evidence was still fresh.

"So much for chitchat," Hector Rollins muttered under his breath.