Van Helsing - Miles And Miles ... -

"Is that... them?" Carl whispered, fumbling for a vial of holy water.

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. Van Helsing - Miles and Miles ...

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. "Is that

"Miles and miles," he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp. "It’s always miles and miles." This wasn't Dracula; this was something more feral,

"It’s him," Van Helsing corrected, drawing a silver-edged kukri. "And he’s tired of running."

The fog over the Transylvanian Alps didn't just hang; it clung, a heavy, wet shroud that tasted of pine resin and old iron. Gabriel Van Helsing adjusted the leather strap of his rotary crossbow, the gears clicking rhythmically against the silence of the pass.

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.