Epilogue - The Mighty and the Fallen

Dracula's power had weakened. It was a consequence of the termination clause. Curse those children! They knew nothing, and their ignorance would destroy all. The demon hoard would no longer be held at bay. He had tried to stay them, to forestall them even, but as Dracula's power had increased every generation with the blood contract, so had the hoard's numbers multiplied with alarming rapidity. It was as bad as he had known, and worse for experiencing it directly, for having it break free from his hold and spring forth like an ocean through a straw. Uncontrollable, pernicious, maddening.

Dracula's breaths came in wheezing gasps, but he must move nevertheless. For the time he had eluded them: he was the prince of darkness after all, and in the night he was at his most powerful. His footsteps were light upon the concrete parking lot. His shadow drew long and thin under the street lamps. Across the walkway, he approached the double doors of the building. There would be a receptionist and he did not want to be seen, not in this state. It was more than a matter of pride though; the hoard may be using anyone as their eyes. One of those hell-spawn could extract whatever information it wanted from these weak mortals with only a modicum of mental manipulation.

Mustering all of his power, Dracula de-materialized. Smoke particles replaced flesh and bone and blood. He slipped through the cracks in the double-doors, floated gently upward and billowed along the ceiling, then down the wall and into the stairwell. Holding the form was an effort, and the mere fact of his exertion infuriated him, giving him the strength to go on. Out of the stairwell, into the hallway, Dracula restored his human form with a gasp. A knee struck the ground. He prevented himself from falling with a hand atop his cane. Confound this wound. It was not a mundane injury, but a magical one that had stripped a hole through both flesh and spirit. His magic was bleeding into the atmosphere.

Grip tightening on his cane, the fallen prince heaved himself to his feet. The cane wobbled at its base. Dracula rushed forward, knowing his strength was failing him, and fell against the door, barely managing to hold himself up. Someone was approaching the door. He could hear the heart-beat's volume rising. This demon would not, Dracula insisted, be seen prostrate. Slapping an aged hand against the wall, pressing his forehead against it, thrusting his cane against the floor, he was able to lift himself to his full height before the door swung inward.

Jason stiffened. "Dracula."

"The same," Dracula said, sounding as careless as possible. It wouldn't do to have this infant see weakness.

"What do you want?" Jason fairly bristled. It was clear that he'd thought himself rid of this entire affair and was ready to murder to keep it that way.

The girl, Layathel, came from behind, putting a hand on her beau's shoulder. "Babe? What's—" She froze. "What does he want?"

Dracula stared at them, and they stared back. Now what should he say? How could he present his case? Weakness, he couldn't show weakness. "I—" Dracula's strength faltered. His confidence weakened. His resolve dwindled. This was too important, and he'd been staving the darkness, the true darkness, for so long.

The Fallen Prince of Darkness eased down to his knees, hand sliding along his cane. On his knees now, he allowed himself a moment of rest, head bowed to the floor. There would be no facade now. His jaw opened, hung for a moment as the last vestige of his pride struggled to prevent this condescension of self, but that pride was a winking ember, and then it was gone. Dracula's voice came out without the haughty air, the deep thrum of confidence. It was the voice of a simple man, a man that he'd not been in centuries. "I need your help."