Miles And Miles ... — Van Helsing -

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

"Is that... them?" Carl whispered, fumbling for a vial of holy water. Van Helsing - Miles and Miles ...

They had been tracking the shadow for weeks—a trail of exsanguinated livestock and villages silenced by a terror that left no tracks. This wasn't Dracula; this was something more feral, a remnant of the Old World that even the Order of St. Dumas whispered about in hushed tones. "Miles and miles," he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp

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. They had been tracking the shadow for weeks—a

"It’s him," Van Helsing corrected, drawing a silver-edged kukri. "And he’s tired of running."

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."