Say the vampire count didn’t venture from his Carpathian roots in the Victorian age of budding science and the dawning of psychotherapy, but in an age of jazz and gin and flapper fringe. Say it wasn’t ancient and regal London that caught his burning eye, but loud and jovial New York. Not the refined parlors of great houses, but the speakeasies and dance halls, where the bright young things glittered most brilliantly in smoky darkness. Here, Jonathan Harker is no quiet man of money, but a brazen bootlegger. Gone is the smooth English accent; in its place the harsh snap and crackle of Harlem. This Harker wears loose ties, chews toothpicks, has a hot song in his soul and plays a mean horn. He’s a self-made man with a family legacy that stretches back into chains and an eye on wooing Mina Murray, the prettiest songbird to ever warble on a stage. But here comes the wealthy Count and his luminous brides, draped in pearls and veiled in silk. To tempt Harker away from his Mina, to distract him while the Count seduces the young flapper with the silver pipes. But the Count has made an enemy he cannot afford, for no amount of green will keep Harker from staining his dark hands red with undead blood. He will tear apart the sinister brides with his own hands, save his Mina with a gun in one hand and his loyal boys at his back. New York is a younger beast than London, and it doesn’t hesitate to bare its teeth.