The Mina Murray Series Bundle, A Dracula Retelling: Books 1-3
L. D. Goffigan
The Mina Murray Series Bundle
Books 1-3
L.D. Goffigan
The Beast of London - Copyright © 2017 by L.D. Goffigan
Fortress of Blood - Copyright © 2017 by L.D. Goffigan
Realm of Night - Copyright © 2017 by L.D. Goffigan
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
The Beast of London Cover Design by Damonza
Fortress of Blood Cover Design by Damonza
Realm of Night Cover Design by Kerry Hynds
Created with Vellum
Contents
The Beast of London
Fortress of Blood
Realm of Night
The Beast of London
1. Adventure Stories
2. The Beast Of London
3. The Harkers
4. The Ball
5. Creatures Of Myth And Nightmare
6. The Vanishing
7. Lucy
8. Transylvania
9. The Promise
10. The Demeter
11. Invasion
12. Overrun
13. Adrift
14. Ijsbran
15. Symbiosis
16. Pursued
17. Massacre
18. Gabriel
19. Revelations
20. The Silent War
21. Draculesti
Fortress of Blood
1. The Order
2. The Land Beyond The Forest
3. Training
4. Ghyslaine
5. Monsters And Darkness
6. Fortress Of Blood
7. Escape
8. Jonathan
9. The Ceremony
10. A Dangerous Idea
11. The Blood
12. Transformation
13. Rage
14. Purfleet
15. Goodbye
16. The Next Journey
Realm of Night
1. Blood Plague
2. Destruction
3. Rage and Bloodlust
4. Rosalind
5. The Trap
6. Warning
7. Berlin
8. Pale Shadow
9. Nightfall
10. Dance of Pain
11. Bloodlines
12. The Order
13. Dark Places
14. Emma
15. Blood of Monsters
16. The Promise
17. The Night Masquerade
18. Prey
19. My Queen
20. Hunter
21. Family
22. Inferno
23. Transylvania
24. Fear
25. The Choice
26. Humanity
27. Possibility
A Message from the Author
Prequel Short Stories
Afterword
About the Author
Also by L.D. Goffigan
THE BEAST OF LONDON
Mina Murray once lived an adventurous life, but after a tragedy in the forests of Transylvania, she left it all behind. Now she has settled into a quiet routine as a schoolteacher in London, engaged to the respectable solicitor Jonathan Harker, attempting to fit into the stuffy upper class London society to which he belongs.
Her dark past comes careening into her present when Jonathan is abducted by a group of vampires from a society ball. Determined to rescue him, she teams up with her former paramour Abraham Van Helsing and his colleague, Scotland Yard Inspector John Seward.
As they pursue Jonathan’s abductors from England to the Low Countries and beyond, Mina realizes that Jonathan’s abduction is tied to a larger threat against humanity…
An electrifying retelling of a classic tale, THE BEAST OF LONDON is the first book of the Mina Murray series.
FORTRESS OF BLOOD
Mina and her allies have found the Transylvanian countryside dotted with empty villages and rife with whispers of monsters who wear human skin. As she prepares for the final showdown with her fiance's abductors, the last descendants of the supernatural Draculesti family, she discovers her own shocking connection to the hidden world of vampires...
A suspenseful retelling of a classic tale, FORTRESS OF BLOOD is the second book of the Mina Murray series.
REALM OF NIGHT
Mina and her allies have destroyed Vlad Draculesti, but the human world is still in danger from his vampire allies. From Berlin to Paris, major European cities have begun to fall to their followers. To spare humanity from the grip of looming darkness, Mina must defeat one of the most powerful vampires in the world...
A thrilling retelling of a classic tale, REALM OF NIGHT is the third book of the Mina Murray series.
“One general law, leading to the advancement of all organic beings, namely, multiply, vary, let the strongest live and the weakest die.”
- Charles Darwin, On The Origin of Species
1
Adventure Stories
Walking through the streets of the East End, I felt the sudden unnerving sensation of a gaze prickling the back of my neck. I clutched the strap of my bag, scanning my surroundings for any sign of a pursuer. The day was unusually bright and sunny for early May in London, a time when rainfall was more common than sunlight, and the streets around me teemed with the familiar late afternoon sights I had become accustomed to during my daily commutes home from the Halfield Ragged School. Street vendors hawked their wares—kidney pudding, fresh fruit, and ginger beer; flower girls sold bundles of primroses and violets; flocks of eager children crowded around merchants who sold halfpenny ices. Passersby weaved around the double deck horse trams, hansom cabs, and carriages that clogged the patchwork of narrow streets.
None of the passersby paid me any mind, and I saw no signs of any potential pursuer, but my unease did not dissipate. I was not far from Whitechapel, where the murderer who called himself Jack the Ripper once lurked. The Ripper had not struck for months, and rumors abounded that he had died or even fled London.
Despite the school’s proximity to the Whitechapel murders, I had never before felt unsafe during my commutes. I even lingered in the neighborhood when I visited families who lived in the nearby tenement buildings to give them baked goods I purchased from street vendors, or old books the school no longer needed.
Pushing my disquietude aside, I continued down the street. I simply must have been on edge because of my confrontation with my superior, the schoolmaster Horace Welling, only hours before.
Horace had entered my classroom not long after I dismissed my students for the day, a scowl etched deep into the sharp lines of his face. With his beak-like nose, beady black eyes, and harsh features, Horace reminded me of a crow come to life. I’d overheard my students on many occasions referring to him as such. Though I admonished them for the taunt, I had to fight back an amused smile of my own whenever I did.
Horace had taken an instant dislike to me, and had not spared me a kind word in the three years I’d taught at the school. If it weren’t for the Harkers’ influence, I would have never kept my post.
“How may I help you, Mister Welling?” I asked, forcing a polite smile as he approached my desk.
“I overheard you telling the students tales of your past adventures, and I m
ust say I am quite displeased with that method of teaching, Miss Murray. Nonsensical adventure stories are not proper lessons. Whatever you did in your past has nothing to do with my curriculum,” he said, emphasizing the word ‘past’ with a slight sneer.
“Children get bored. At times, telling stories is necessary to hold their attention.”
“These are some of the poorest children in London. They should be happy to receive an education at all. They do not have the privilege of being bored.”
Anger shot through me at his words. Horace was barely middle class, yet his snobbery belonged to someone of the nobility; it was truly insufferable. Usually, I was able to hold my tongue at such remarks, but today had been an exception.
“It is not their fault they were born to a lower station,” I snapped. “I’m going to give these students the best education I can—the same that I would give to wealthy children. All children enjoy stories. It helps them learn.”
Horace’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He hated anyone disagreeing with him—especially a female teacher who worked beneath him. He stepped forward, his mouth going tight.
“If you wish to maintain your post, you will adhere to the curriculum I have administered. Otherwise, I am afraid our funding will not be able to continue for your class.”
I stared at him in disbelief, but Horace evenly met my eyes. For all his grim-faced dourness and snobbery, Horace was not a cruel man. But I could tell by his expression that he was quite serious.
I calmed myself, setting aside my pride for the sake of the students. Without my class, many of them would be unable to get an education anywhere else, and they would be put to work in the factories . . . or worse.
“All right, Mister Welling,” I said, forcing agreeability into my tone. “No more adventure stories. I will stick to the curriculum. My apologies.”
Horace’s hard mouth curved, settling into what I assumed was his version of a smile.
“I trust we will not need to have such discussions in the future.”
“No. Of course not,” I replied, though it took every ounce of restraint I had to keep the polite smile pinned on my face.
Looking quite pleased with himself, Horace turned and waddled from the room. As soon as he was gone, my smile vanished, and I wearily leaned back against my desk, taking in the old dusty classroom where I spent much of my time. The school was indeed for the poorest children of the East End, and it showed. My classroom was minuscule in size, dimly lit during the day by sunlight, which filtered through the smudged narrow windows. I had attempted to hide the dirty walls of the classroom with maps and drawings the children made, but the grime was still quite visible. The narrow desks the students shared had become cracked and rickety with age, and the old wooden floors were riddled with splinters.
Despite the decrepit state of the classroom, I had grown fond of it, just as I’d grown fond of my young students. Their joviality and inquisitiveness was infectious, and reminded me of myself at their age. Teaching at the school had become a much-needed refuge, a way to forget the painful events of my past. Dealing with Horace was a minor annoyance in light of such a haven.
I pulled myself from my thoughts and back to the present, though my agreement to not tell any more adventure stories still weighed heavily on my mind. The stories were all about my travels throughout Europe with my father and his former student, Abraham Van Helsing. My father had been a biologist, and I shared his love for the natural sciences. I accompanied him on his travels with Abe around Europe to perform experiments, and he sometimes even managed to sneak me into lectures and conferences. Telling my students embellished versions of our travels had become my way of reliving those happy times. Now I feared that those memories would soon fade to nothing, and I would be left with only the most painful one. The one that still plagued my nightmares.
I paused mid stride as a surge of grief threatened to rise, but I managed to quell it. In the three years since my father’s death, I had come to learn that grief was an emotion without end, marked by continual waves of loss and despair that ebbed and flowed for years, like the ocean tides. Perhaps it was best that I could no longer relive my past through those stories. They were a part of my old life; the life I had left behind after Father’s death.
As I joined a throng of commuters to approach the Whitechapel and Mile End Underground Station, I noticed a man about fifty yards behind me out of the corner of my eye, moving with slow deliberation to match my pace. This could have been a mere coincidence, but my unease returned and my spine stiffened with alarm. I picked up my pace to push through the slow moving crowd, subtly glancing behind me to see if he would follow suit.
The man picked up his pace as well, and I could feel his intense gaze on me; the same gaze I had sensed only moments earlier.
My instincts had been correct. I was being followed, and I had just identified my pursuer.
I could not fathom who would be following me or why, but I instinctively felt that I needed to evade him. Not wanting to lead the pursuer to my home, I turned to slip out from the crowd of commuters, bypassing the station to take an abrupt turn down the next street.
The street I had turned onto was isolated and dominated by decrepit lodging houses. A crumbling brick wall marked a dead end. A grave sense of foreboding swept over me as I passed by a butcher shop, which coated the surrounding air with the thick smell of blood.
I hoped that I had lost my pursuer and could turn back around, but I was halfway down the street when I heard steady footfalls behind me.
Taking a deep breath to quell my rising panic, I tried to recall my self-defense training. Years ago, Father had insisted that I undergo self-defense training at a boxing and fencing school just outside of London. As much as I enjoyed physical exercise, I had thought it an odd and unnecessary request, yet he had insisted. I obliged him and took up training under the tutelage of Bradford and Sofia Frances, husband and wife instructors.
If you ever suspect you are being followed, maintain your calm, Sofia had once told me. Never show your fear. First, you must determine if you are prepared to fight.
I was unarmed and certainly not prepared to fight. I’d stowed away the two kukri knives Abe had given me as a gift when I started my training. I didn’t think I’d ever need them again.
If you are not prepared to fight, find an escape.
I would have to bypass my mysterious pursuer to flee. I was trapped. Behind me, I could hear his steady footfalls as he drew near.
If you cannot escape and you are not prepared to fight . . . do what you must to defend yourself.
I kept walking until I neared the brick wall that closed off the far end of the street, deliberately slowing my pace. The footfalls of my pursuer also slowed as he drew closer still.
I finally stopped walking altogether, keeping my back to him as I pretended to search for something in my bag. Though my heart hammered in my chest and my hands shook violently, I hoped that I appeared calm. I forced myself to wait until the man was close and his hand grasped my shoulder.
“You—”
The word was barely past his lips when I whirled, pulling back from his grip and lifting up my skirt to kick out at his knees. The man let out a startled cry as he crumpled to the ground, and I stepped forward, lifting up my boot and pressing it firmly onto his chest, forcing him onto his back as I glared down at him.
The man was devilishly handsome, with wide cerulean blue eyes that peered up at me from beneath prominent brows. A shade of dark stubble grazed his strong jawline, and wavy chestnut hair fell almost to his shoulders. He did not seem concerned to be flat on his back with my boot on his chest, and quiet amusement danced in his eyes as he met my astonished look with a wry grin.
I stumbled back, reeling with disbelief. It was a face I knew well. A face I thought I would never see again.
Abraham Van Helsing lumbered to his feet, picking up his hat as he pulled himself up to his full height of well over six feet. He grinned down at me, dusting off his ve
st and black tweed sack coat, and placed his hat securely back on his head. I stared at him, dumbfounded, not quite believing that he was standing before me.
“That was quite the greeting, Mina,” he said lightly, in the deeply timbered voice I knew so well, his English only slightly accented by his native Dutch.
“What . . . what are you doing here?” I demanded, when I was finally able to find words. My astonishment rapidly turned into fury. “And why did you follow me like that? You could have called on me at home. You frightened me.”
“It was my intention to call on you, but my business at Scotland Yard concluded earlier than I anticipated. When I went to your school you were already leaving; I wanted to see if you recalled your training. I see that you have,” he added, with a wry smile. “I am sorry. It was not my intention to frighten you.”
