Dracula clenched his fists. This was what awaited him in defeat? To be enslaved, once again, to a man of cruelty? He would not stand for it. He hurled himself at Abraham's ghost with an inhuman cry. There was nothing there to fight. Not even the residue of a soul. Upon discovering this, Dracula attempted to dissolve into the shadows, to make himself invulnerable and invisible. The magic took hold again, burning as it had the hound in the vision, and Dracula found himself reverting to that form against his will. The collar was as heavy as it had appeared, though he himself was in better form--sleek, well-fed, not some pathetic animal beaten into submission. Dracula twisted his body in an attempt to rid himself of the iron around his throat, but no matter how he contorted his limbs, he could find no purchase or slack. He settled, at last, for leveling his baleful glare on Integra Hellsing. He would destroy her, he vowed. Not in this moment, but soon.