As the sun dipped behind the peaks, bleeding a bruised purple across the sky, a howl ripped through the air. It wasn't the clean, sharp cry of a wolf. It was layered—a discordant chorus of a dozen voices trapped in one throat.
"It’s him," Van Helsing corrected, drawing a silver-edged kukri. "And he’s tired of running." Van Helsing - Miles and Miles ...
"Miles and miles," he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp. "It’s always miles and miles." As the sun dipped behind the peaks, bleeding
The distance between them and their quarry had shrunk from miles to yards in a heartbeat. From the tree line, a shape detached itself—a towering mass of elongated limbs and pale, translucent skin. It moved with a sickening fluidity, blurring the line between man and beast. "It’s him," Van Helsing corrected, drawing a silver-edged
They had been tracking the shadow for weeks—a trail of exsanguinated livestock and villages silenced by a terror that left no tracks. This wasn't Dracula; this was something more feral, a remnant of the Old World that even the Order of St. Dumas whispered about in hushed tones.