Count Vladimir Dracula's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Count Vladimir Dracula stood at the tall window of his manor and watched the sun die over Headstone, Texas. Six centuries of war had taught him that every empire begins with one town. This dust-choked speck would be his beachhead. From here, his legion would spread. Tonight, the preparations began. His captains filed into the great hall of the Crimson Pyre Estate. Four of them, chosen from the ranks he had turned in the last month. He gave each a target and a timeline. No speeches. Speeches were for men who doubted themselves. He gave them the map of the town and dismissed them before the candles guttered. In the cellar, the summoning circle was already chalked. A Red Acolyte knelt at each cardinal point, hood low, hands bloodied from the offering bowls. Dracula spoke the opening words himself. The floor split. Heat rolled up the stairs in a dry wave. The Infernal Maw Portal opened like a wound, and a horned thing pulled itself halfway through, testing the air with a black tongue. Dracula named his terms. The thing bared its teeth and agreed. He would have soldiers from below when he called. He drove into town before midnight. The mayor's office smelled of cigar and something older. Mayor Vǐn Ðeťťa sat behind his desk in his snakeskin suit, boots up, cigar burning. "Well now, Count. Late hours for a new neighbor." Dracula placed both hands on the desk and told him what Headstone would become. The mayor drummed his fingers. "Heh. Y'know, rattlesnakes don't argue with the drought. They just move deeper into the rocks." He tapped ash onto the floor. "Reckon we can be… agreeable." Neither man blinked. Neither man was human. A truce was set. The Cobra Club was quieter at two in the morning. Dracula took the back booth beneath the fanged arch. An old ally slid in across from him, robes hidden under a duster. The Crimson Robes would answer the call. They would bring numbers, rites, and hunger. But the old ally leaned close and spoke of a hunter already in town, one who read the old books and carried an old rifle. "He knows what you are," the ally said. Dracula only nodded. He had expected this. He found the sheriff's truck parked outside the county building at dawn's edge. Sheriff Walt Longmire stood by the tailgate, cleaning his Winchester with a rag. He looked up. He did not reach for the gun, and he did not step back. He said, "You're the one bought the old estate." Dracula studied the man's eyes. No fear. No bluff. A compass that would not bend. Dracula returned to the manor as the sky paled. The captains were briefed, the portal was open, the mayor was bought, the Crimson Robes were coming. Only one thing remained certain now. The sheriff would have to die first.