by Francisco Araujo da Costa
#8 - Aug 00	Inheritance of Blood

The sweat drips from Frank Drake's forehead to the linen sheets, and he hugs his wife tighter. Marlene is asleep, her head against his bare chest. The last living descendant of Dracula carefully moves the hair away from his face to better look at his fair wife. So many fights arose from his life amidst the darkness that, whenever Drake has this sight, his mind wanders back to those days when he and Jean and Clifton first traveled to his Castle. To when Clifton awoke the cursed Count, and his life took a turn for the worse.

And Frank Drake can't help but wonder "What if...?"

'Drake or Dracula, you're in the right way.' The words of Clifton Graves ring on Frank Drake's ear. Clifton is his partner in this adventure towards riches. The jeep shakes and roars as it runs through the road, and Frank tries his best to distinguish his destiny amidst the grayness before him.

"Please, Frank, let's stop somewhere and ask for directions. It has been years since we left the airport and I don't--"

"But I do, Clifton. I don't know how, but I know I cannot get lost." Drake snaps back at Clifton. "The castle is no more than a mile away." Frank keeps driving, the mud spilling on the side of the car. Suddenly, Jean's voice is heard as the car spins.

"Frank! The car! Watch out!"

The car spins and turns, its headlights illuminating the countryside with unwanted velocity. When the car lands, Frank is the first to get out.

"Perfect! It's the work of a genius. An ovation to rented jeeps. We better return to the village. Do you think you can, Jeanie?" Drake says, opening the door and extending his hand to his lover.

"Y-yes, Frankie..."

Frank helps her in silence, thinking about the tricks of destiny that lead him to this small country. Finally, when the trio is back on their feet, he sighs, and starts to walk back.

"Since you're planning things, Frank..." Clifton says, "Is there anything you should inform us? Knowing the way and all that."

"Cut it out!" Drake snaps back at Clifton. He knows his friend's bitterness comes from envy, from his loss of Jean, but he cannot admit it nonetheless. Jean feels guilt as she watches the two bicker all the way to the small village; she knows Clifton can't stand seeing the two together.

"BATS!" The voice of Jean announces the obvious as several chiropterae fly around the trio, their wings like claws.

"Duck, Jeanie! Duck!" Drake was in a trance, observing the castle, but he quickly snaps out of it. "Cover your eyes! Don't let them get close to your eyes!"

"Please... Frankie... Get them off me!" Jean's voice came mixed with sadness. When the mammals finally went away, the couple hugged, and Jean hid her face in Frank's shoulder, her heart pounding against her chest.

"Bats! God, I can't stand them."

"Shut up, Cliff!" The blonde replied to his friend with anger, but soon returned to his love. "Are you alright, dear? Are you..."

"Hurt? No, I'm fine." And when she looked up, the expression on her face made it unnecessary what she spoke next. "But I want to leave this place and this damned country!"

After that, the trio decided to find themselves rooms and rest from the weary trip and the mishaps. In the third floor they found hospitable beds, thick carpets by fireplaces and wall paintings depicting a man with obsidian eyes that Frank examined for hours to no end.

The next few days passed by with such incidents occurring, but the three grew resisted them, and with time they started to decline in number. Since none of the villagers accepted to go to the castle to work, Clifton managed to get people from outside to come to work. They cleaned the place, reforming everything from the entrance up. Soon even the perpetual mist around the castle was adding to its charm rather than hiding it.

When the first crowd of tourists arrived, a smiling Jean welcomed them. She toured them through the castle, explaining the history of the place, trying to add some of the mystique the stories Frank read in the diary had. Flash photography hit paintings and sculptures made before Columbus discovered America. The visitors came from Japan, Canada, and the US, from England, France and Germany -- ironically, some came from Turkey, the nation the Count fought so fiercely lo so many years ago.

When they would get to the end of their tour, back again at the main hall, surrounded by velvet and tapestry, Frank would descend the lustrous stairway in a black suit over a red shirt, his hair combed as if it was painted rather than real, and he would say:

"I am... Dracula."

"Come with me, Jeanie... Leave him and his ghost stories!" Clifton Graves holds Jean by the wrists as he speaks to her. Months have passed, and Clifton has grown a full beard, while Jean remains with the same beauty as she did when he first saw her.

"No, Cliff!" She said, shaking her arms. Cliff let her go, raising his hands and turning his face.

"Fine. Do as you will, Jeanie. One day I will not be here, and you will regret having wasted this opportunity." Clifton said with angered sadness in his face. Graves turned around and left the dining room they were in, to tend the business of the castle.

Jean looked at the man, and remembered how it was to make love to him. It was pleasure, and it was carefree. It seemed like something that could never end. But that was before she laid her eyes on Franklin Drake. After him, Cliff always seemed to be a distant man, no matter how close he would get to her. And Frank would always be the one hearing her every word, the one she loved in wealth and in poverty... and now in wealth once more.

She opened the door to her bedroom, and saw Frank. He didn't say a word. Wearing his red robe, Frank sat on the couch by the fireplace. The flames illuminated Frank's face with the same eeriness as they did the painting of the nobleman on the wall.

"Frankie?" Jean called for him. The silence that followed it was much larger than the one that preceded it; Frank didn't even move. "Frank! Frank!" The third time around startled Frank Drake out of his trance, and he turned to his lover. Blond hair dangled over his forehead.

"What?! Can't you see that I'm reading here, Jean?"

"I just wanted to--

"Interrupt me? You did it! Why don't you go back to Cliff now?!"

"Frank! I... Jerk!"

The sound of a hardwood door being slammed followed her last words. Frank blinked, and Jean wasn't there anymore. He was reading an excerpt written by Dracula's grandson, his ancestor, and was at the climax of the Tepes nobleman's tale. Jean did not mean to interrupt him, but he was so immersed in it that he could not believe she dared to bother him. I should go there and apologize... After I finish this re-read.

Sitting against the door, Jean wept, her face between her hands.

The next day, as the rain poured heavily on all of Transylvania, someone came knocking on the castle's door. The knocks were strong, and Frank Drake heard them in the second floor. He came rushing, the diary inside his coat. When he opened the door, two figures stood on his entrance. Dramatically, thunder struck on the background.

Frank looked at the couple. One was a bearded man of Hindu appearance, wearing a turban, a cape and a sober brown jacket. He was silent and still, and Frank had the impression he was a statue rather than a man. The other person was a woman, but Frank couldn't quite distinguish her face, because she wore a green cloak to protect her from the rain. She removed the hood, revealing a fair face and shoulder-length blonde hair.

"Frank Drake?" She spoke with a strong voice where Frank expected a sweet one. He nodded and she continued. "I am Rachel Van Helsing, and this is Taj Nital."

"Van Helsing?" Frank was surprised, startled. He had read the passages detailing Abraham Van Helsing's struggle against Dracula several times. Could this be?

"Yes, Van Helsing like Abraham Van Helsing, if that is what you mean. May we come in?"

"Yes, of course. Where are my manners?" Frank led them inside to the empty entrance, and Rachel sat on a bench with Frank.

"Won't you sit down with us, Mr. Nital?" Frank asked the giant, who nodded negatively to him.

"Taj is mute, Mr. Drake." Rachel said, retaking Frank's attention. "Mr. Drake, I do not intend to beat around the bushes here. You have with you an item that interests us... The diary of Abraham Van Helsing. We believe there is important data contained there. We will pay you well for it."

The diary! Frank's hand twitched -- he wanted to hold on to it, but he felt she would know it was in his jacket if he did so.

"I ... do not know what you are talking about, Ms. Van Helsing."

"Mr. Drake, there is no use in lying. We know it is with you."

"Ms. Van Helsing, I think you are taking old legends and the fiction of a dead Irishman too seriously. It is quite a coincidence that you had a grandfather or great-grandfather, I don't... I only own the castle that belonged to my ancestor. I don't know of any diary, I merely run a tourist attraction, an opportunity to bring tourism to Transylvania... "

"You try my patience, Mr. Drake. You do not believe your own words, why should we?"

"I think, Ms. Van Helsing, that you'd best leave now." Frank said, getting up. Rachel sighed and got up.

"Very well, we will go. Let's go, Taj!" Rachel took Taj's arm and the duo walked to the door, accompanied by Frank Drake. When he opened the door to them, Rachel turned around and spoke again. "I warn you, Franklin Drake: You step on thin ice with that diary and this castle in your possession."

With those words, Rachel Van Helsing and Taj Nital disappeared into the night. The words weigh heavily on Frank Drake's consciousness. He stores his jacket in an armoire and takes to the stairs.

"Can I come in, Jeanie?" Frank Drake sticks his head into the bedroom where Jean is. He looks at her: lying on the bed, her face swollen, blushing. Frank feels like the greatest jerk in the world for having done it to her. She doesn't answer, and he walks to the bed. She turns away from him, and Frank clenches his fists, feeling even more disgust for himself.

"Look, Jean, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for last night, I really am. I didn't... I don't know what I was doing... I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry, Jeanie."

Jean turns to him, tears rolling down her face. She hugs him and kisses him passionately, and he answers in the same level. They kiss and fondle and touch and love each other, oblivious to the storm outside and to Clifton Graves's envy.

"No, Mrs. Strangway... Ms. Strangway, right... Again, Ms. Strangway, we cannot accept... Ms. Strangway, we're not in that much of debt, we do not want to sell the castle... Goodbye, Ms. Strangway." Frank Drake put down the telephone and cursed. He wiped sweat from his brow, ran his hand through the blond hair and looked up: Jean was standing there, looking at him with those big brown eyes.

"Frank, who was that?" She asked candidly.

"This woman, a former model, Ilsa Strangway. She wants to buy the castle -- desperately. This must be the third time she's calling this week. It's just a nuisance, honey, don't worry." Frank said with a smile while he got up from the chair. He kissed Jean and they stayed in a hug, his face amidst her hair.

"Frank, why don't you sell her the castle?" Jean spoke and Frank pushed her away.

"No, Jean! I will NOT sell the castle! Not to Ilsa Strangway, not to anyone!"

"Frank! We could pay the debt and move out of this damned country. We can go back home, restart our lives."

"What for?! For me to throw out of the window the money she's gonna give for this castle, like I did my inheritance? No, Jean, no way! We are staying here, and if you don't want to, you can very much get the hell out of my face!"

Jean looked at the angry face of her lover, and tried to remember those days back home. She tried hard to find Frank Drake, but all she could see was the angry man in front of her. She held back the tears and the slap she wanted to let loose, and turned his back to Frank. She left without speaking another word, and slammed the door with all her strength.

Frank ran his hand through his hair again, took the book from the table and sat down to read, trying to calm himself.

September passes and the mood of times continues. Clifton started to pressure Frank to sell the estate, maybe buy some land with what they can gross from it. As one can guess from that suggestion, the arguments were plenty. One of those times, a fist actually flew.

One particular evening, however, Frank spent without stress and turbulence. He walked up the stairs earlier than usual -- he misplaced his diary and didn't spend any time reading it, and most of the dusty volumes of the Castle's study were in Romaine.

He opened the door of his bedroom and stopped dead at his tracks. Jean lied silent on the bed. The messed up sheets partially covered her body, but it was obvious she was nude under them. Her brown hair was much like the bedsheets, and their resting place was Clifton Graves's chest.

Frank tried his best to move his jaw or his hands, but some force had taken control of him and stopped him completely from moving. His best friend and his beloved, together in bed. How?, Frank thought, How could they do this to me? With Clifton, my best friend... It can't be! Frank closed his eyes, grimacing, and covered them with his hand, which at last responded to him.

But when he opened his eyes, the duo was still in bed. Frank turned away and took to the corridor, where each painting seemed to watch him. Every ancestor of his, with their nightly eyes gazing at him. Gazing at the failure, the incompetent, the impotent so unworthy of his last name it was not granted to him.

And he wandered, wandered away from the bedroom, to the lowest, deepest parts of the castle and his self. They could just not have done it! But they had, and the thought got to his nerves. Finally, Frank reached the lowest basement. It seemed untouched for years, maybe decades -- if anyone had even been there lately, the footprints would have remained on the dust on the floor. He walked on the unknown room, but not for long. His weight was too much for the thin wood, which could not sustain him, and so Frank Drake fell.

Miraculously, he falls unharmed on the ground. Everything is pitch black, though, and he lights up a match. By his side, there is a coffin with an inscription on its stone base. But Frank doesn't have to read it, he knows what it is. He finds a torch hanging on the wall and lights it up.

Nervousism grows in him. This is it, this is the final resting place of the Lord of Vampires. Under the cover lies Count Vlad Tepes, the Impaler, whom the people called The Son of the Demon, Dracula. Frank moves the hardwood lid with shaking hands, and the vision of its content does not disappoint him at all: inside, the bones of an elegant tall man, a wooden stake between his ribs.

Frank moves his hands slowly, afraid and eager of what is about to happen. He takes the stake off the skeleton's torso and...

Nothing happens! Drake drops the stake, mystified.

"Great! Another big letdown." Frank says, turning away from the casket. "Just another failure. Face it, Franklin Drake, the only good thing on your epitaph is gonna be 'Had The Blood Of Dracula'..."

"Greetings, relative." The voice came from behind Frank, chilling him cold at site. Frank turned around, and there was a man standing in the coffin. He wore a dark blue formal attire with a cape. His skin was pale, extremely pale, and he sported a goatee that boasted his elegance.

"Y-You... You are he. You are Dracula." Drake spoke to the Lord of Vampires, but stating the obvious did not move the vampire. He looked at the vampire, an exact fit of the diary's description. And Frank thought about his life and his failures, and he saw only one solution.

"Take me!" Frank cried. "Take me now! I don't care, just end this miserable life. Jean is cheating on me, my friends have left me, every single one of them! Just take me and gets this over with!"

Dracula looked at Frank Drake from top to bottom. This, it seemed, is what his blood had thinned down to. He gave his descendant a small grin, and jumped to his neck. The sting was an acute pain, but one Frank found too short. Dracula moved away from him. Frank glared at his ancestor, blankly, and Dracula spoke.

"Your life is now mine, thrall. Your life is Dracula's. Now, take me to this Jean... There has been long since I last walked this castle, and the thirst is great..."

Frank Drake's mind snaps back into reality: his son, Adam, is crying. He kisses Marlene on the forehead and gently lays her head on the pillow as he leaves the bedroom to sing to the next living descendant of Dracula...

NEXT ISSUE : How am I supposed to know? I'm only a guest writer. But if the past is any indication, I would have to say next issue has the mystique of always.

Well, I hope the decrease of quality from Bob to me was not that great. Being a huge fan of his writing, I felt not so little pressure coming from within when I decided to write a Vampire Tale. Hopefully, it did not turn out to be a bust, but rather an enjoyable look at what might have been.

This issue is a spin on the events of TOMB OF DRACULA #1, from way back when in the early 70's. The Conway-written and Colan-penciled tale depicted Clifton Graves waking the Count, who turns Jean and makes a thrall of Clifton. It was on that series that most of Bob's character came to be; the book lasted 70 issues, and had magazine spin-offs such as... Vampire Tales.

Back to that original first issue, I am lucky enough to own it (in the excellent Spanish reprint, which I suggest as a cheaper alternative to the Spanish-speaking -- buy it if you find it in any language, though -- you'll see that learning Cantonese is worth it), along with the following five. Much of the dialogue in the beginning of the issue was borrowed from TOD #1, and hopefully my backwards translation to English worked.

I've blabbered for too long now... Back to Bob's writing =]