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with age. From each one he gingerly drew out a multi-page letter, unfolded the brittle paper carefully, and placed the documents side by side on the bed in front of him.
    He had thought more than once about photocopying these pages and placing the originals in a safe deposit box, but always rejected the idea. It was important that he handle this paper, that he re-read these words before going out on an investigation, especially if it promised to be difficult or dangerous. It helped remind him of what he was, and where he had come from.
    He read each letter slowly. One was signed "John W. Seward, M.D." The other, written in a shaky, old man's hand, bore the signature "Abraham Van Helsing, M.D., D.Ph., D.Lit., etc."
    It was these documents, along with the account given by Stoker, that had allowed the family to piece together the fate of the first Quincey Morris, who had fought and died in a place far from home.
    * * * *
    The Carpathian Mountains
Transylvania
Novembers, 1887
    The sun was low on the horizon now, which lent greater urgency both to the pursuers and their quarry. The two parties were pushing their horses to the limit—they all knew that once that blood-red orb disappeared below the mountain peaks, continuing the chase would be futile.
    The American was at the head of the pursuit. He rode hard and well, bent low over his mount's neck to decrease wind resistance and reduce the blurring of vision caused by the cold air whipping at unprotected eyeballs.
    Unlike his companions, the American had some experience taking a horse into battle, although the brightly dressed gypsies up ahead bore little resemblance to the Apaches he had fought in south Texas as a young man, almost twenty years earlier.
    The gypsies' cart was slowing to a halt now, under the rifles of Mina and the Professor, who had been hiding in ambush behind some rocks near the entrance to the castle. But the gypsies, although stymied, showed no inclination to surrender. Dismounting, they produced knives from within their clothing and formed a protective cordon around the cart and the large, rectangular crate that it carried.
    The sun had crept lower still.
    The American rode up on the scene and was out of the saddle before his mount had stopped completely. He sprinted toward the gypsies' cart, drawing the huge Bowie from its sheath on his belt. He could see Harker rushing forward from the opposite side, waving that great kukri knife of his like a scythe.
    The two of them attacked without hesitation. There was no time to parley with the gypsies, even if a common language could somehow be found. There were at most a few minutes of daylight left, and then his time would be on the world again.
    The American fought savagely and by instinct, which is the only way to go up against odds with any chance of survival. Slash, parry, thrust, parry, slash, feint, slash, thrust, parry, the big steel blade of the Bowie knife never still, thrust, parry, feint, slash, the left hand working as well, punching, clawing, blocking, pushing, gouging as he surged forward, forward, always forward. He knew nothing of fear, or pain, or mercy, and three gypsies lay twitching on the ground before the rest of them finally gave way before this madman, a moment after their kinsmen on the other side broke under Harker's equally desperate onslaught.
    The two men clawed their way onto the cart's flat bed and immediately assaulted the nailed-down lid of the crate, the refuge and resting-place of the creature they had come so many miles to destroy.
    Using their knives as levers, they tore the nails loose, wrenched off the lid and flung it aside—just as the last rays of the sun disappeared from the western sky.
    He was inside, as they had known he would be, to all appearances a corpse but then, as the daylight fled over the horizon, the ancient eyes flew open, the sharp canine teeth suddenly visible as the face twisted in a triumphant smile—a smile that vanished an instant later as the blade