Van Helsing - Miles And Miles ... Site

"Miles and miles," he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp. "It’s always miles and miles."

As the sun dipped behind the peaks, bleeding a bruised purple across the sky, a howl ripped through the air. It wasn't the clean, sharp cry of a wolf. It was layered—a discordant chorus of a dozen voices trapped in one throat. Van Helsing - Miles and Miles ...

"It’s him," Van Helsing corrected, drawing a silver-edged kukri. "And he’s tired of running." "Miles and miles," he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp

"Is that... them?" Carl whispered, fumbling for a vial of holy water. It was layered—a discordant chorus of a dozen

The fog over the Transylvanian Alps didn't just hang; it clung, a heavy, wet shroud that tasted of pine resin and old iron. Gabriel Van Helsing adjusted the leather strap of his rotary crossbow, the gears clicking rhythmically against the silence of the pass.

Beside him, Carl—the friar whose nervous energy was the only thing keeping them awake—tripped over a jagged root. "Technically, Gabriel, it’s leagues. And if my map is even remotely accurate, which, given the cartographer was a madman in a dungeon, is a coin toss, we are still three days from the Borgo Pass."

The distance between them and their quarry had shrunk from miles to yards in a heartbeat. From the tree line, a shape detached itself—a towering mass of elongated limbs and pale, translucent skin. It moved with a sickening fluidity, blurring the line between man and beast.