Chapter 4: The Master's Arrival
*Few days back*
The cargo ship Demeter had sat abandoned at Pier 47 for three days, its crew nowhere to be found and its manifest listing only "antique furniture and religious artifacts" from Romania.
Harbor Master Joe Wellerman had tried calling the shipping company twice, but the phone number led to a disconnected line in Bucharest. Now, as fog began rolling in with the evening tide, he decided to board the vessel himself and see what kind of cargo was worth abandoning a perfectly good ship.
The ship's floor creaked under his weight as he climbed toward the main deck, flashlight beam cutting through the mist. Everything about the Demeter felt wrong—the deck was too clean, as if recently scrubbed, but dark stains had seeped up through the wood grain like old blood refusing to be washed away. The usual harbor sounds seemed to die at the ship's hull, creating a absolute silence that made Wellerman's heartbeat sound thunderous in his own ears.
"Hello?" Wellerman called out, his voice echoing strangely in the fog. "Anyone here? Ship's company? Harbor Master inspection!"
No response came from the apparently deserted vessel.
Wellerman's flashlight beam revealed details that made him feel deeply uneasy. Scratches in the wooden planking that formed words in a language he didn't recognize. Dark handprints stained the ship's rails, as if someone had gripped them while bleeding. And the smell of earth and blood and something else combined.
The cargo hold hatch stood open like a hungry mouth, revealing stairs that descended into absolute darkness.
Wellerman hesitated, every instinct screaming at him to call the Coast Guard and let them deal with whatever was down there. But harbor regulations required a manifest inspection, and his pension was only two years away. He couldn't afford to look incompetent because some foreign crew's abandoned their ship.
The flashlight beam revealed a hold packed with wooden crates of varying sizes, all marked with shipping labels in what appeared to be Romanian. Most were roughly coffin-sized, secured with iron bands and heavy brass locks that looked centuries old. But it was the largest crate, positioned in the center of the hold like some kind of shrine, that drew Wellerman's attention.
This container was clearly handmade, carved from what looked like ebony wood and decorated with silver inlays that formed intricate patterns. The symbols matched nothing in Wellerman's thirty years of maritime experience, but they seemed to twist and shift in his flashlight beam as if possessing their own life.
As Wellerman approached the coffin, his flashlight began to flicker and dim despite fresh batteries.The temperature dropped noticeably with each step, and his breath began misting in the suddenly cold air.
The coffin's lid was slightly ajar.
Wellerman's hand trembled as he reached toward the gap, driven by the some kind of morbid curiosity. The wood felt warm despite the cold air, almost feverishly hot, and seemed to pulse like a living heartbeat under his palm.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Wellerman spun around, his flashlight beam revealing nothing but empty cargo hold. The voice came again, this time from his left, then his right, then from above, as if the speaker was moving around him faster than human eyes could follow.
"Harbor Master Joseph Wellerman. Married to Sandra for thirty-one years. Two children, both grown and moved to Coast City. A grandson named Timothy whom you've only met recently because your daughter blames you for working too much when she was young."
"Who... where are you?" Wellerman's voice cracked with fear.
"I know these things because I make it my business to understand the lives I touch. It adds... texture to the experience." The voice was closer now, intimate, as if someone was whispering directly into his ear. "Your grandson Timothy has his grandfather's eyes. Such a lovely shade of blue. I do hope you'll have the chance to see him again."
A figure materialized from the shadows between two crates—tall, pale, dressed in a black coat that seemed to absorb the flashlight's beam. Count Dracula moved with grace that belonged to no earthly creature, his feet making no sound on the hold's wooden floor.
"Count Dracula," he introduced himself with an elegant bow. "Welcome aboard my vessel, Harbor Master. I trust you find the accommodations... adequate?"
"Sir, I'm Harbor Master Wellerman. This vessel has been abandoned for three days, and I came in to check—"
Wellerman's hand moved toward the radio on his belt, but Dracula tutted softly, and the harbor master's arm froze mid-motion as if his muscles had suddenly turned to stone.
"The ship has not been abandoned, Harbor Master. Merely... temporarily uncrewed." The figure stepped closer and Wellerman noticed that the man cast no reflections in the polished surfaces around him. "I am Count Dracula, and this vessel carries my personal luggage to my new residence in Gotham."
The fog thickened around them, and Wellerman realized with growing horror that it wasn't natural mist but something far more sinister—a kind of living darkness that responded to the pale man's presence.
"What... what are you?" Wellerman whispered.
Dracula smiled, revealing canine teeth that were just slightly too long and sharp for a normal human. "I am the end of one era and the herald of another. I am the shadow that will fall across Gotham's streets and the darkness that will teach its protectors the true meaning of fear."
He moved closer, and Wellerman could see that his pale skin seemed to glow with its own cold light. "But most importantly, Harbor Master, I am someone who always repays hospitality. You have inadvertently provided me with some intelligence about this city's defenses and the competence of its guardians."
"Please, I have a family—"
"Yes, Yes, Family. They all say that." Dracula's expression became almost compassionate, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying. "They will be perfectly safe, I assure you. In fact, soon they'll never need to worry about losing a husband and grandfather to the dangers of harbor work again."
The last thing Harbor Master Joe Wellerman saw was Count Dracula's eyes beginning to glow red, expanding to fill his vision until there was nothing left but beautiful, terrible light. The last thing he felt was twin points of agony in his throat, followed by a warmth that spread through his body.
When it was over, Dracula stood over the drained corpse with the satisfied expression of a connoisseur who had just sampled a fine vintage.
"Fear adds such remarkable flavor to the blood.Truly Exquisite."
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St. Bartholomew's Cathedral had stood empty for twenty-three years, its gothic spires proof to Gotham's more religious past. The building's abandonment had nothing to do with declining believers and everything to do with a series of unexplained incidents that had driven away even the most devout parishioners.
Strange sounds in the walls, shadows that moved independently of their sources, and a persistent smell of sulfur that no amount of cleaning could eliminate.
Now, as midnight approached on the fourth night since the Demeter's arrival, the cathedral experienced a resurrection of sorts.
Dracula stood before the altar, his pale hands resting on the cracked marble surface as he surveyed his new domain with satisfaction.
The building's sanctified nature should have caused him pain, but centuries of accumulated evil had long since corrupted whatever holiness the cathedral once possessed. Now it served his purposes perfectly—a fortress of his own in the heart of Gotham's oldest district.
Behind him, arranged in neat rows throughout the hall, stood his first servants. The crew of the Demeter had not abandoned ship as Harbor Master Wellerman believed—they had been transformed into something far more useful than mere sailors.
Twelve men who had once worked cargo ships now served as his vampiric lieutenants, their human memories intact but their loyalties rewritten by Dracula's ancient blood.
"Report," Dracula commanded without turning from the altar.
Captain Petrov, formerly of the Romanian merchant marine, stepped forward. His skin held the pale, waxy complexion of the recently turned, and his eyes glowed with dim red light.
"The harbor district has been surveyed, Master. Three shipping warehouses can provide adequate temporary shelter for additional servants. There are old subway tunnels that offer routes throughout the city which can avoid daylight exposure. And the human authorities remain completely unaware of our presence."
"Excellent. And the local... irregularities?"
"There are complications, Master. This city harbors individuals with abilities beyond normal human parameters. Our reconnaissance has identified at least one who operates under cover of darkness, using advanced technology and combat training to interfere with criminal activity."
Dracula finally turned from the altar, his ageless features showing mild interest rather than concern.
"Ah yes, the Batman. I have heard whispers of Gotham's self-appointed guardian. A vigilante who believes that justice can be achieved through fear and violence. How... cute."
"Shall we eliminate him before beginning the larger campaign?"
"Eliminate?" Dracula's laugh echoed through the cathedral's glass ceiling. "My dear Captain, you misunderstand the situation entirely. Batman represents an opportunity, not an obstacle. A man who has already embraced darkness, who operates outside human law, who uses fear as a weapon—he is already halfway to becoming what I require."
Dracula moved deeper into the cathedral, his footsteps silent on the dust-covered floor. In the shadows, more crates from the Demeter had been arranged in careful patterns.
These containers held more than just his personal items—they contained artifacts accumulated over centuries of conquest, items of power that would serve to establish his dominion over Gotham's supernatural landscape.
"The Batman will serve my purposes whether he chooses to or not," Dracula continued. "But first, he must be properly prepared. Fear must give way to desperation, confidence must crumble into doubt, and his precious moral certainties must be tested against impossible choices."
He gestured toward the cathedral's stained glass windows, where moonlight filtered through images of saints and martyrs.
"Begin the corruption of Gotham's street level criminals. Turn the desperate, the violent, the irredeemable. Create an army of lesser vampires to serve as foot soldiers and feeding stock for our more refined purposes. But be selective—I want quality, not quantity. Each servant must be chosen for specific skills and strategic value."
Captain Petrov bowed deeply. "It shall be done, Master. And the civilian population?"
"Leave them largely untouched for now. Fear spreads more effectively than actual violence, and panicked humans make poor servants. Let rumors spread naturally—mysterious disappearances, unexplained deaths, sightings of impossible creatures in the fog. The human mind will do most of our work for us."
Dracula approached one of the larger crates, running his pale fingers along its surface. Inside lay items of particular significance—weapons forged in the earliest days of his reign, chalices used in blood rituals that predated even Christianity, and most important of all, genealogical records that traced certain bloodlines across centuries of careful cultivation.
"There is one family in particular that requires special attention," he said softly. "The Waynes have served my purposes for generations, though they have never understood the full scope of their obligations. The current heir has been shaped by tragedy and trained in combat, molded into the perfect instrument for my eventual rule over this city."
"The Batman is a Wayne?"
"Bruce Wayne, yes. The last scion of a bloodline that has unknowingly prepared the way for my arrival in America. His transformation from protector to predator is the result of plans set in motion even before his grandparents were born."
Dracula opened the genealogical records, revealing family trees that connected the Wayne lineage to Romanian nobility through centuries of arranged marriages, business partnerships, and carefully orchestrated alliances. Every generation had contributed to the larger design, whether they knew it or not.
"His parents' death was no random crime, Captain. It was the final piece of preparation, the trauma necessary to forge him into something capable of embracing the darkness within his own blood. Now that he has spent years becoming Batman, he is ready for the next phase of his evolution."
The vampire lord moved to the cathedral's central window, where the blood moon was beginning to rise above Gotham's sky. Its crimson light painted the cathedral's interior in shades of dried blood.
"Signal the others," Dracula commanded. "Let every supernatural entity in this city know that the old powers have returned. Let them choose sides carefully, for the age of hiding in shadows is ending. Soon, creatures of the night will walk openly in Gotham's streets, and humans will learn their proper place in the natural order."
As Captain Petrov departed to carry out his orders, Dracula remained at the window, watching the blood moon's ascent with the patience of something that had waited centuries for this moment. Somewhere in the city below, Batman was likely pursuing his endless war against conventional criminals, completely unaware that his entire existence had been orchestrated by forces beyond his comprehension.
The transformation of Gotham would begin with the corruption of its would-be protector, and Dracula had all the time in the world to ensure that Batman's fall was both spectacular and complete. The Wayne bloodline would fulfill its destiny at last, and the Dark Knight would become something far darker than his current persona could imagine.