Transylvania, Romania   January 1st, The Year of our Lord 1666 A.D.

From atop the black, winged stallion he rode atop named Perdition, the Grim Reaper fixed his stone-faced gaze on what was going on amidst the grassy terrain beneath him. Under the moonlight, one could almost notice a flicker of what could only be considered a general look of satisfaction on Death’s cloaked, skeletal features as he stared at the continuing swirls of pseudo Nether Realm-esque blinding light shooting a multitude of spectrums that reached down from the Heavens to touch this unremarkable Romanian hilltop buried amongst the Transylvanian Alps and Carpathians that overlooked the vast Argés River. Before his steel-set gaze, the rays of light wavered in their intensity and radiance, then vanished altogether.

Atop this unremarkable hilltop, before Death’s empty eye-socketed unflinching gaze, a vast interlocking series of stone walls and towers reconstituted themselves in all of the glory and splendor and beyond they knew in its original existence, the grand structure once called “Castle Dracula” was rebirthing. To no fanfare other than the haunting presence of Death, looking on in witness to the spectacle, the Demon Castle Dracula—CastleVania—returned to Earth.

When the last stone fragment was settled and the hilltop was its quiet, tranquil (granted, if inherently foreboding now) self once again, prominent male and female figures appeared from the doorway of CastleVania’s uppermost tower. As the youthful-looking woman, her long, almost greenish hair swaying with the wind with the fabric of her red blouse, put her arm around the arm of the man, who seemed to give a hint of a smile before meeting and locking eyes toe-to-toe with Death.

His horse reading his will well, the Grim Reaper rode his stallion into flight. The flapping and beating of the horse’s vaguely bat-like wings could be heard as he hovered up to greet the pair of untroubled-looking enough onlookers.

“Uriel, my friend,” the man rasped, his veritably whispered voice carrying such grating depth and resonance it seemed as though he were booming. He let go of the woman’s arm, then braced himself against the tower’s railing precipice as he peered out across the lush Romanian countryside. “The year 1666 this is... it is written in the winds, the sky, and the very earth itself. You have my utmost gratitude for your splendidly prompt services, of course—oh, I would expect nothing less of one with your... shall we say, reputation—but I must admit... after my last...” Dracula spared a slightly befuddled look at the woman, then at Death as he struggled for the most proper way to word it, “... my last episode with that bane of a Belmont, Christopher, in 1591... I thought I would be waiting in the madness beyond death for my Second Centennial Resurrection until 1691 or so.”

“Your efforts to possess the body of Christopher’s son, Soleiyu, were in vain and foolhardy from its inception as they were in their abysmal execution, Dark Prince,” the Grim Reaper’s deep, reprimanding voice was heard in response. Dracula’s tone and voice were deep enough, and Death’s was every bit its match. “Your Demon Castle as well as you and your niece, the Countess Elizabeth Bartley...” Death’s gaze dwindled a moment on the female at Dracula’s side, the young woman seemingly standing her ground, undaunted by even Death, “... have been bestowed with earthly flesh and material existence once more because I willed it.”

“Again, my utmost gratitude,” Dracula again extended his thanks. “You have honored our ... contract well. It shames me that I must come to rely on this pact of late, but the contract has stood nonetheless.”

“And it is the principles behind our ‘contract’ that have moved my hand this day, Dark Prince. The year 1666... the Year of the Beast.... the Year of the Devil that comes but once a millennium this is.” Death paused, perhaps for his idea of effect. “It is on this year that Heaven’s hold on the ethereal walls that contain Purgatory and the Underworld is at its unavoidably weakest, Dark Prince. Soon, with my help in bringing you back to life and giving you another chance to realize your dark goals, the forces of Hell will break down the walls of their damnation and lay down the ramparts to this Earthly realm... and there shall be known an unending, perpetual Hell on Earth. I offer you a place as this New Earth’s Dark Lord, protector, and supreme sentinel of its lands and peoples for all of eternity with your niece at your side... in exchange for a...” Death seemed suddenly equally at loss for the correct wording as Dracula had been a moment ago, “... favor.”

Dracula gave the Grim Reaper a carefully measured glance. It seemed he was speaking in appeal to the conquering monarch side of the Count, a side in the Count dormant since his mortal life. “You insinuate an alteration to our agreement... our contract. I give your words a wary eye, but I will hear what you propose I do.”

“Prepare the primitive peoples of this world for the coming of Hell on Earth, Dark Prince... make them ripe vessels for the conquering by Hell’s minions, and you shall not only be rewarded with the position I speak of, but blessed immortality with all the weaknesses and quirks of the vampiric ‘Dark Gift’ stripped of you.” Death leaned forward a bit on his horse. “When was the last time you saw the sun rise, Dark Prince? A long time, I should think, and your niece as well.”

“I miss it not, and could just as soon do without it!” Bartley hissed, then whirled to Dracula, fangs bared in a mild showing of annoyance. “Uncle, will you continue to listen to this dri—”

Dracula silenced his niece with the simple, gentlemanly gesture of a raised hand. Little by little, a very solemn, very weary motif crept over the Count’s formerly imposingly composed features. His eyes remained fixed on the moon, so big and bright against the cloudless night sky above... and yet still no substitute for the sun he had not seen in centuries. “It has been a long time indeed, Death, since last the warm rays of the sun were on my face... beating against my back in the field... bringing light to the dark I treaded through all of my existence whether it was warlord or helpless youth,” he responded at last, his voice lightening. The Count’s gaze grew distant. “I believe I was alive then, still my beloved Wallachia’s voivode hero and revered prince... I think I saw it last that day in December of 1476, the marshes of Buda, as I led my army home from the last raid I oversaw against the hated Ottoman Turks...” His voice trailed off as he caught himself becoming caught up in the emotion he was usually able to suppress so well. He felt a tinge of embarrassment, a tinge he was able to suppress easily enough, thankfully.

“You speak of the day of your mortal death; the day our contract was bartered and signed as we met in the Hereafter, signed in the life-blood of your soul.” Death gave a chuckle, a loud, hoarse one, yet a chuckle that could only be heard as one sounding empty, even to vampire ears. “I have honored it thus far, you will agree, yet you.... you, your minions, your Hell-spawned generals of various human mythologies, and even the walls of CastleVania with you have been slain and struck down four times to this day, and twice even by the same man—I must consider, Dark Prince, that you seemed a better conqueror as a mortal man with a meager band of mortals against your country’s enemies than you do ever since as an immortal King of the Vampyres with all the minions of Hell you desire at your command.”

Dracula regained himself, the malevolence seeping back into his iron composure. “I have until the dawn of the Third Millennium. I know this well, just as well as I know 2001 is a ways away yet.”

“That is the ‘deadline’ of our contract, yes, by which time CastleVania and your person must still be among the living... should you still be alive at the turn of the millennium, our contract shall be rendered null and void, and your immortality and hold on this world will become absolute. Alternatively, should you greet the new millennium being slain—by the latest of the Belmont Clan, if your history with them is any indication of what is to come—our contract will also be rendered null and void... only my centennial resurrecting of you and your Demon Castle will cease, and you will spend all of Time to End of Creation within Hell’s fiery embrace.”

“You need neither to remind me or intimidate me, Uriel,” Dracula spat.

“Perhaps you would care to dispense with the contract sooner, then? Do me the favor I ask—spread your blanket of vampirism and dark dominion under your rule across Europe, then the world as you have sought to do since I first granted you your Undead existance that fateful day yet have come short thus far—and we will make the contract null and void three hundred years early... and you win your unhindered immortality.” He looked back to Bartley, who stood now rather impatiently. “That is why I have resurrected and brought to your side your niece.”

“We have some... catching up to do, her and I,” Dracula said. As he had later learned, while he himself had been born in 1431, Bartley (the daughter of his older brother, Mircea), was a vampire not only of his own blood but a vampire that preceded him, Dracula, the King of Vampires, the youthful-looking girl being 28 years old at the time of her death in 1421 but a vampire of her own right since at least age 21. Their lives had not overlapped, of course, and Dracula had never the chance to meet his niece. At the very least, female company—even of the vampyre sort—was appreciated by Dracula, who had been doing all he could to ignore—if not fill with false truths and transcend—the hole in the fibers of his very being that he’d known since his mortal life, the hole dug first by the suicide of his first wife, the Transylvanian woman named “Elisabeta,” then filled and dug deeper yet by the loss of his second wife, the Hungarian noblewoman Ilona Elisabeth “Lisa” Szilágy, who had been burned at the stake by her fellow townsfolk for “witchcraft” after the blessed woman had refused to turn her back on him and embraced him as her husband still after he’d returned from the dead as strigoi. In his niece, Elizabeth Bartley, Dracula saw many things—a daughter figure (Dracula had never had a daughter in life, only three sons—Mihnea “The Bad” by his Elisabeta, then later Vlad IV and Adrian Fahrenheights by his beloved Lisa), not the likeness of the ruthless “Blood Countess” Elizabeth Bathory of Transylvanian history he would later learn had “succeeded” her (or at least follow her example in every way except actually being a vampire) in practice earlier in the seventeenth century they were now in but a fond kindred spirit, a loyal accomplice bound to loyalty by blood... and perhaps finally, pound for pound his vampiric match. Dracula would never admit it, but he could see a bit of his older brother in the woman’s fiery young eyes. “Perhaps she can teach me a thing or two, yes?”

“Do with your blood as you will, Dark Prince, but do not lose sight of the favor you do me, should you agree to carry it out.”

“I will carry out this favor, as I would would you have asked me or not regardless, but I can only help but wonder...” Dracula narrowed his eyes, not accusingly but rather in curiosity, “... from the first to this latest meeting of ours, I have never questioned it.”

“Speak your concern, Dark Prince. I hide nothing.”

“Uriel, you were an Archangel for the Heavens... a neutral figure serving God that guided earthly spirits to their Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory after death for as long as there was recorded history and probably before that, too. Why, biblical hearsay even has it you warned Noah of the impending Great Flood, thus saving humanity from certain doom.” The Count gave a sigh. “Now... you tell my niece and I you plot to outright oppose Heaven’s will and create a Hell on Earth? Trust you I do, but your motivations I question.”

“Look into my eyes, Vlad Dracula III,” Death seethed, his skeletal body contorting under his dark robes as he leaned even closer to the Count’s face. “Look into my eyes, Dark Prince, and tell me what you see.”

“Nothing.” Dracula’s lip twitched as he sized up the Grim Reaper, fighting and championing the urge to avert his gaze from the Grim Reaper’s hollow eye-sockets. “Nothing at all, Uriel. Not a thing.”

“My soul is as empty as yours, Dark Prince. Every bit—do not doubt this.”

All of a sudden, all of it made sense in Dracula’s mind—why Death had chosen him and given him the opportunity of their contract, why Death, a traditionally neutral figure in religion, would take such an interest in Dracula, and why Death would defy God as his plans clearly stated so clearly he was doing. Just as in God’s name Death had been made Uriel, “The Angel of Repentance” and the “Interpreter of Prophecies,” essentially Heaven’s ferryman that was invested with the keys to Hell and the right of ascension to Heaven for all the hundreds of thousands of tormented souls of Earth’s dead for entire centuries, in God’s name Dracula had been made a figurehead in his life, a servant and protector of the same organized religion of Roman Catholicism that damned his first wife to eternal damnation for her act of suicide. While Dracula was susceptible to the symbol crucifix he hated from his life as a traditional vampiric weakness, Death openly plotted in defiance to paint an “X” over the symbol of the crucifix he’d once claimed as his emblem, break it down, burn it, and scatter its ashes to the four winds. Both men, fallen angels, if not each a Lucifer in their own right.

“Now... will you do me the favor I ask, Dark Prince?”

As Countess Bartley put an arm around her uncle’s waist and gave him a slight squeeze of approval, Count Dracula tipped his head respectfully at Death. “I will, Uriel.” Dracula smiled sardonically. “In quite short order, I should imagine, just as soon as my new army is marshaled to my approval.”

Death’s horse began to beat its sleek wings faster, taking and hovering Death further above the tower and further from the pair of vampires. “Your time is short, Dracula, for just as the forces of Hell have had opportunity provided this year of 1666 by the weakening of Heaven’s restraint enough that I have been able to resurrect you two and CastleVania to carry out the favor I speak of, Heaven will retaliate for certain. How or in what form I cannot say, but be wary you must.”

“Then I shall.”

“Farewell then, Dark Prince. I shall be watching your affairs in this realm with a careful eye, but I shall wish you... luck regardless.”

Dracula tipped his head again, more graciously this time. “Appreciated as everything else you have done for me, Uriel. Farewell.”

“For every action,” Bartley whispered moments later as Death left their audible range, somewhat mock-seriously, “... there is an equal or opposite reaction.”

“Quite true, milady. Quite true. And as for the Belmonts...” Dracula smiled, knelt, tenderly took the Countess’ hand in his, and then kissed her hand before standing, “... the latest of their ilk, whom I expect to be be introduced to unless I introduce myself first, shall feel just how I intend to ‘react’ to what they have put me through. But let us begin now our work, my dear Elizabeth, as there is much of it to do.”

“Oh...” Bartley gave a grin every bit Dracula’s equivalent in malevolence, “... by all means, Uncle—let’s.”

While Death rode his winged stallion into the same mottling of pseudo-light high above that had brought forth CastleVania’s reconstitution, Count Vlad Dracula and Countess Elizabeth Bartley exchanged a knowing glance.

There was much work to do indeed.

 

Warakiya Village, Transylvanian Romania   September 27th, The Year of our Lord 1483 A.D.

It had been over a full year since the triumphant journey that had taken Sonia Belmont within the walls of the Demon Castle Dracula, CastleVania. She tried not to think about that night of hell, but sooner or later it always ended up consuming her thoughts, her mind, her very psyche. It consumed her with a collage of questions, questions like, “Did I really do it? Is Dracula, my country’s lost sovereign reborn as Satan-spawn, truly dead?”

It was lately, however, that her worries were of a more... maternal nature.

Standing near the fireplace in the living room of her modest “dwelling” (for lack of a better word) and peering down at the stirring, naked infant she cradled within a bundled bedsheet in her arms, a very motherly smile dawned on Sonia’s face. “So strong you’ll be one day, little Trevor,” she cooed at her baby. She rocked her son back and forth in a knowing manner that must have come from trial and error on her part, as it seemed to relax him. “And so big you’ve already gotten! Goodness...”

If Sonia could have looked at herself now a year ago at age seventeen, needless to say she wouldn’t believe what she would see. Sonia Belmont... mother? What business did she, she of all women, have being a mother? Her family and clan was comprised of men of war-folk, soldiers, fighters, and blacksmiths that either fought in battle or were sure as bloody hell prepared to at any given moment of their lives. To her knowledge, the women of which were every bit the equal of their male counterparts. She was taught how to handle a whip by her grandfather and had learned at an early age of her ability to sense the presence of beings physical and spiritual that cannot be seen by ordinary humans. Worrying about children and motherhood was something she’d been brought up to believe was supposed to wait until she’d outlived all usefulness in the working world/fighting for her country and was basically a lonely, incompetent middle-aged woman.

What had happened was... something that could not be predicted, least of all by her, and she wasn’t even sure she had wholly made sense of it in her head yet. Was she responsible enough to take care of herself and raise a child? Her vampire hunting days over with the slaying of the King of Vampyres, she felt confident the answer was “yes,” though that still left one matter unattended... the father.

It was no immaculate conception, to be sure—little Trevor C. Belmont did indeed have a father. What kind of father, one might ask? The villagers of Warakiya Village certainly would never allow in their sight without first rounding up a lynch mob and some pitchforks, let alone approve of him (though even they feigned gratitude for Sonia putting a stop to Dracula, they remained unsettled, perhaps even scared to some end of Sonia’s “powers”), no secret about that, which forced Sonia to sneak out into the night or vice versa to even visit the father of her child. It was a veritable nightmare, one which was sure to make raising young Trevor that much more difficult.

Adrian Fahrenheights Tepes—“Alucard” to anyone other than those close to him... which pretty much seemed to mean only Sonia—could be considered what those deep into vampyre lore would label a dhampire. Only half vampire from his father’s side, he was wholly able to walk under direct sunlight and was not dependant on blood for survival. Sonia found it somewhat ironic that in future generations of vampire hunters stemming from her bloodline—beginning with young Trevor, whose training would begin in earnest as soon as he came of age—would all, in actuality, be stemming from Count Dracula’s own bloodline.

The son of Count Dracula was perhaps not the most ideal father figure for a child, but Sonia cared little for such idle ideals—a year ago Alucard had won her heart, had kept it ever since, and they both were still deeply in love... that was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

Before she could ponder her predicament any further, a blinding ray of light was cast down upon the center of her living room. Startled, Sonia huddled her baby protectively against her shoulder as she prepared to dispatch whatever trespassing criminal was trying to make their entrance, with her bare fists if need be.

“Who’s there? Answer me!” she roared, assuming something resembling a fighting stance. “Show yourself—now!”

Sonia would receive no response... at least not in words. From the intense beam of light, a warped seven feet tall “mottling” appeared directly in front of her, infinite neon colors swirling in the vortex-like swirling within the energy field.

“Shhhh, baby,” she whispered down, calming her now-crying child. Cautiously then, she took a step closer to the energy field, studying its colorful swirling configurations. “A portal of some kind... a gate...?”

If Alucard were here he might know with more of a degree of certainty what it was, but he wasn’t. Yet as she stood in indecision, the energy field’s light began to wane, the colors swirling inside of it beginning to mesh together as if the whole thing were about to dissipate from whence it came. Blinking, Sonia stopped trying to think about this logically and started thinking as the vampire hunter she had been a year ago.

It was a gate, that much was certain, but where did it go? Who had sent it... and to her very home...? Sonia felt there was reasonable enough suspicion to indicate it was a non-hostile source from which the gate was being generated—why had no monsters or demons or vampires come pouring from it to be done with her at a moment of weakness? No, it was no malevolent source. She feared even still, however, it was a sign, perhaps one that might indicate Dracula had returned to life once more and her duties were required once again.

Carefully settling little Trevor in his crib and tucking him in so as not to disturb him further, Sonia moved quickly. Her armored garments nearby in only the next room, soon she was clad in a slightly more armored version of the getup she had worn a year ago into CastleVania.

Hurriedly, though meaningfully, as a final touch Sonia retrieved and grasped the sacred Vampire Killer whip from its mantle, coiling the weapon that was said to be enchanted by the Poltergeist King himself in her hands in a comfortably familiar fashion, then fastened it at her hip.

Taking first a deep breath and preparing herself for either ambush or sudden death, her hand hovering above the handle of her whip, Sonia Belmont took four steps forward and entered the portal. She vanished immediately, doing so mere seconds before the portal itself flickered, then vanished along with her.

London, England   April 10th, The Year of our Lord 1889 A.D.

There was much to be said about the politics of London. So easy was it for a man to lose himself and his petty problems amidst the complex series of intricacies they presented.

A wandering gambler, vagabond, something of a rogue (or so he’d been told), and soldier of fortune in the years past, Victor Belmont had made the decision long ago not to accept the Belmont Clan’s legacy as a vampire hunter by running away from home at an early age. During his subsequent travels, Victor made it a study, perhaps even hobby to learn not just the art, but the very science of warfare, though all the while attempting to avoid his true destiny amidst the petty politics of 19th century England.

Victor had been told a long time ago, perhaps it was by his grandfather before his death, that the blood of the Belmont Clan cannot be ignored by a man of its line forever, and that he would be no exception. He shrugged it off at the time, but as fate would have it one day he did return to the Transylvanian soil of his birth... though, as he had found, he did so returning as a rebel and outcast to his family and anyone with ties to it that had known him. Even proud old Reinhardt Schneider had been there that day in what was now the town of Walkia to give him the cold shoulder, the high hat.

“Fold,” Victor said at last, a rather dismissive grunt that broke the silent tension between the five gentlemen at the table as he tossed his cards down. Under the confused gazes of the others at the table, he gave another grunt, this one of disgust, stood up, and then sauntered his way into the adjacent ballroom. All of this corner of the grand city’s most important-looking rich and famous could be seen prancing about in their best expensive attire.

Seeing no attractive young women by themselves waiting to be graced by his charming presence and charisma and otherwise having only money left to spend that would be required if he intended to get a decent hotel that night, Victor decided it was time for him to leave.

Giving the smiling doorman the finger as he left, Victor stalked back into the night.

Walking afterward for a time aimlessly and destinationless along the streets of London, he roamed without thought or purpose. His way of dealing with things; with himself. Running into no night time passers-by save for the whores he paid little heed to, when he eventually came to pass by a dark alleyway between a closed diner and one of this side of the city’s more seedier hotels he would ordinarily not give a second glance, he cocked an eyebrow of interest at the bizarre series of flashing lights that seemed to be emanating from it.

Taking little time to debate it in his head, Victor approached and entered the alley to investigate. This investigation was out of boredom, idle curiosity, or perhaps even in response to some kind of red flag that shot up from the Belmont in him... he didn’t need a reason.

The moments passing as he studied what appeared to be a human-height mottling of blinding lights and colors, the way he looked at it, he then had two options : 1) Turn away, let the lightshow dissipate from whence it came (later he could chalk the whole thing up to bitter beer), and check into perhaps the seedy hotel to his left so that he may repeat this unremarkable day tomorrow, or... 2) Step inside the lightshow and either have perhaps a new “once in a lifetime experience” sort of thing, maybe die, or maybe nothing at all... but at least he’d know, and there’d be a chance at the adventure he so sorely yearned for yet would not admit to.

Finally, Victor gave an emphatical, decisive shrug. “Aw, screw it—what the hell. Might be fun.”

With that, Victor Belmont stepped into the energy field and vanished from the alley into the embrace of its mottled, swirling rays.

Transylvania, Romania   January 4th, The Year of our Lord 1666 A.D.

Another time; another place.

Count Vlad Dracula and Countess Elizabeth Bartley, uncle and niece united, stood arm-in-arm against a precipice in one the uppermost regions of CastleVania’s devilishly symmetrical towers and other structures. Before them, clustered about the expansive courtyard below could be seen a massive gathering of the minions they’d managed to muster together in the past three days. Grotesque ghouls, zombies, vampires, fishmen, skeletal and armored warriors, spearmen, man-beasts, bone dragons—there was seemingly no end to either the sheer number or vast variety of the monstrous army at their fanatical bidding.

The Count exchanged a satisfied enough look with his niece, then lightly kissed the top of her hand. With that, an unspoken understanding was felt and shared.

Their army of darkness was nearly readied—it would not be long now. Not long... at all.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .