Chapter 42: And With a Smile That Judas in Hell Might Be Proud Of, Part 11
Dracula approached Alex for the final battle, walking with a slight limp. Yes, he had been injured in the fall. He wasn’t all-powerful or untouchable—just almost. But in a way, that made things more exciting.
His wounds were far from as serious as they appeared. The theatrics were for Alex’s benefit and for the sake of the spectacle they were putting on, even if the only spectators were corpses. If Alex believed he was weakened, if she thought she had a chance—provided she gave it her all, one last effort—then the fight would be all the more thrilling.
There was no value in Alex surrendering to despair. That would be unbearably boring. And yes, Dracula remembered her name. She had proven time and again that she was worthy of his attention, of the effort it took to remember. So, he afforded her that respect.
Respect was the least he could offer. After all, this wasn’t a one-man show. For Dracula’s existence to have meaning, there had to be a hero to oppose the villain. That’s how it had always worked, and that’s how it always would.
He had no desire to change his way of life, and in any case, there was no way to change it. This was what he was, how everything worked. The world was a stage—truer words had never been written or spoken.
They crossed swords over the dragon’s corpse, both fighters moving purely on willpower. Or at least, that was the appropriate concept for a proper final battle. The hero—or heroine, in this case—giving it everything they had and more.
And a villain just as tenacious, refusing to fall, seemingly invincible. Anything else would have been dull. Dracula, at least, detested any other kind of story. This was the golden standard for the tale of Dracula’s demonic castle.
“Tell me something,” Alex said, “what was up with the guy dressed as Davy Jones? He went down with one hit; it was so easy. What kind of joke or trick was that?”
So, he’d just been some guy in a costume? Well, that explained a lot. Like why the man had refused to obey him outright, despite Dracula being the Prince of Darkness. Why he’d had to brainwash him, hypnotize him into following orders.
Dracula didn’t blush—he couldn’t blush—but it was deeply embarrassing. Thank goodness none of his monsters were close enough to hear. Well, none close enough now, since his army was spread across the city, and obviously, they hadn’t had time to kill them all.
The castle only crumbled when he died. The only thing destroyed was the throne room. But no matter, no one was near enough to hear his humiliation or offer help he didn’t need.
“Just a poor fool in a costume. An innocent, that’s all,” Dracula lied boldly, hoping it wasn’t obvious. “Sorry to disappoint, but really, that’s it. I knew anyone who made it to the throne room doors wouldn’t be stopped by just anything. So I saw no need for a legitimate last defense. And I don’t count, of course,” Dracula laughed. “I’m not the castle’s final defense. I am the castle, the army—everything is a part of me. You know that, don’t you?”
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Dracula laughed menacingly, stretching the muscles in his mouth in a way impossible for humans, baring his entire set of fangs, stained with blood. It gave the impression of a broken jaw or peeling skin. But in reality, he was simply more flexible than the limited, poor humans.
That was all. He’d practiced that sinister smile countless times in front of a mirror. He had perfected it, but Alex didn’t react—not even a blink. Well, she was probably too preoccupied with surviving, fending off the rain of blows that fell on her like an epic avalanche.
That must be it. He wouldn’t tolerate the insult of her indifference. It had to be that, nothing else. She couldn’t have lost her fear.
He had made himself seem more vulnerable than he truly was, but not to such an extent, right? Or maybe it had nothing to do with him. Perhaps Alex had simply lost her fear because she thought she had nothing left to lose. That made more sense.
If that were the case, she would either overcome her circumstances, or he would defeat her and watch her collapse when she truly had no hope left, unable even to defend herself.
Dracula licked his lips. He knew his preferences. He’d like to see her rise above, but if she couldn’t, he would still tear her apart with a grin on his face. Either way, he won.
Dracula realized Alex thought she had defeated Daniela, that she’d disappeared for good. That was surely the only explanation she had for why her friend wasn’t here, fighting by her side. Though there was a simpler, more likely truth: he had just thrown her off the dragon. But in such a situation, anyone would assume the worst.
Any human, at least. Dracula smirked. He didn’t know where Daniela had ended up, but he would enjoy this while it lasted—however long it took for her to return.
“You’re alone now,” Dracula said. He didn’t need to lie to break people, but this wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. “And no one will thank you for this heroism. Now that everyone knows creatures like me aren’t fiction, what do you think will happen? Will they gather, hold hands by the fire, and sing songs of peace and love?”
“No. You’ll do what you always do,” the vampire king declared, between the clash of steel and flying sparks. “Walk straight into your own destruction, arms wide open. Your death will mean nothing. You’re not saving anything or anyone, little Alex. Nothing and no one.”
Alex didn’t respond. She was pragmatic. She needed to conserve her breath, focus on attacking and defending. But it wasn’t exactly convenient for a villain’s monologue in a story like this.
One way or another, regardless of the fight’s outcome, Alex had many of the qualities of a proper hero. Surely, she was the most fitting person he had found to play that role in the modern era.
The guy in golden armor might have looked the part—to someone superficial. But Dracula had known he would lose the moment he saw the man’s face was covered. It didn’t matter that wearing a helmet was practical; no hero hid their face.
Still, Alex had a serious flaw. She had no sense of theatrics, no style, none of the flair needed for a dance like this. Oh well. You couldn’t ask an elm tree to bear pears or whatever the saying was. He’d have to make do with this girl. He wasn’t going to find anyone better, especially at the end of things.
In fact, if there had been someone better, they would already be here, facing him.
Whether he liked it or not, she was his partner this time. He’d have to manage, learn to enjoy it, and bring things to a fitting conclusion. Whether it was his victory, the death of this heroine, or his temporary defeat like all the others. Perhaps luck, fate, or whatever one wanted to call it, had decided for him.
He hadn’t even meant for it to happen. But in an exchange of blows that had no reason to seem significant—just another cycle at the beginning—Alex’s sword flew from her hand. It landed far away, embedding itself in the ground, out of her reach.
Of course, she ran for it, arms outstretched. With a fluid motion, Dracula severed her right arm entirely, from the shoulder.
Alex collapsed into a rapidly growing pool of her own blood. The pain was so immense, and her exhaustion so complete, that she didn’t even scream.
And With a Smile That Judas in Hell Might Be Proud Of, Part 11: END