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But his wife died, in childbirth. It has been, now…" Van Helsing calculated briefly, "about four years since. So, fear not. Our American friend was a gentleman. He was free to marry Miss Lucy, if she would have him. But, as matters developed…"
    "Yes, quite." Seward closed his eyes tightly for a moment. The fate of Lucy Westenra was a wound on his soul that would need a long time to heal, perhaps a lifetime. "But the baby lived, you say?"
    "Yes—lived, and is now in the care of Quincey's parents on their ranch, or so he did tell to me some months past."
    Van Helsing saw that the others were done with Morris's body and preparing to leave. As the two men walked toward their horses, Seward asked, "Is Quincey's child a boy or girl? You didn't say."
    "A boy. Strong and healthy, by all accounts." Van Helsing swung into the saddle. "We should pray that the son grow to be as brave and steadfast as was the father."
    "Yes, we should," Seward said. "The world needs such men." They turned their horses and joined the others on the road that would take them to Bistritz, and, in time, back to England. Behind them they left nothing but a ruined castle, a few gold buttons, and a handful of rags that were already scattering in the cold, Carpathian wind.
    * * * *
    Morris finished reading the letters, refolded them carefully, and placed them back in their original envelopes. He put the two envelopes in the fireproof box, and locked it. Then he returned the box to the bureau drawer.
    The tall Texan who had died in the shadow of Castle Dracula was the first of the Morris family to stand against the forces of darkness that forever trouble the world.
    He was not the last.
    Quincey Morris closed his suitcase, picked it up from the bed, and went off to catch his plane.

Chapter 3
    The LaRue house certainly didn't look frightening. But then, they never do, Morris thought. The pleasant white Colonial with green and gray trim wouldn't even merit a second glance from some Hollywood production assistant out scouting locations for a new Wes Craven movie. Morris had been in a few certifiably haunted dwellings over the years, and none of them had borne the slightest resemblance to Castle Dracula—a place that Morris also knew a great deal about.
    There was the house in West Pittston, Pennsylvania—the little one with the white siding. Nothing special to look at, but pure evil inside—as bad in its way as an equally nondescript place in Amityville, Long Island. And Morris had once spent an hour in a certain town house in Washington's Georgetown section. Walking through the elegant home, you'd never know that two Jesuit priests had once died there while performing an exorcism to save a little girl.
    Morris had learned that evil doesn't advertise. It doesn't have to.
    The fortyish blonde who answered his knock had probably been fairly attractive a few months ago, before fear and worry and sleepless nights had their way with her.
    "Mrs. LaRue?"
    "Yes, what is it?" she said impatiently. Clearly, she was ready to repel boarders, whether salesmen, Jehovah's Witnesses, or candidates for City Council.
    "My name's Quincey Morris, ma'am. You're expecting me, I hope."
    For an instant she gazed at him blankly, then comprehension dawned. "Oh, you're the—I mean, yes, of course, my husband told me. Please come in."
    She led Morris down a short hallway and into the living room, where her husband sat on a couch next to a dark-haired boy of about five. They were watching a video that Morris recognized. It cleverly used stop-motion animation to portray the adventures of a wacky British inventor and his long-suffering dog.
    LaRue stood up at Morris's entrance and walked over to shake hands. "Glad you made it. Good to see you, I see you've met my wife Marcia."
    Morris nodded. Looking at the boy he said, "And who's this handsome young fella?"
    "This is my son, Tim. Say hello to Mr. Morris, Timmy."
    The boy turned his pallid face toward Morris long enough to say "Hi,"