What good is eternal life if you have seen every late-night infomercial twice? For Count Dracula, immortality had lost its bite. The year is now, the hour is late, and the Lord of Transylvania is slumped in a velvet wingback chair that has witnessed the fall of empires. The only light in the cavernous great hall flickers from a seventy-five-inch gothic-framed television, its garish glow reflec...
