Disclaimer: Long story short, I don't own it. I'm not making any money off of this, it's just an ongoing chronicle of a game my boyfriend and I have been playing with a couple of our "own characters"…which is in quotes because technically we don't own them either since they're historical figures, like the vast majority of the characters in the books. Coincidentally.

Disclaimer 2: We've done our best to keep them true to history, here, but obviously we've never met the historical figures depicted here so the artistic liberties will have to be excused, no one's trying to defame anyone's character or anything like that.

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Chapter 1:

Anastasia leaned on the railing, staring into the water below. A breeze had come and was presently toying with the ends of the pink scarf she had tied around her throat. Her strawberry blond hair mingled with it, stray hairs plastering themselves against her face. She brushed them back when they came, trying not to fidget too much, or to appear nervous.

He'd told her to come here, told her there would be someone waiting for her to help. At one hundred and eleven years old, she should be above these kinds of jitters. She was meeting an ally, one Grigori had spoken for. He couldn't be too terrible.

But his parting words echoed in her ears none the less.

If he starts to act maddened, stay your distance.

She swallowed in an effort to wet her dry throat and was about to check her phone for the time when a noise grabbed her attention. There was a short shriek a small distance away, and a cloud of rust red mist puffed from the alley for a moment before the man strode out of it, tugging at the lacy sleeve of his shirt.

How none of the mortals noticed him, she had no idea. He was a tall man, over six and a half feet for a certainty. She would look like a child next to him, she could tell, and he wasn't anywhere near her yet.

His back was straight, his wavy dark hair kept out of his face and behind his shoulders in spite of the wind this afternoon. The thought occurred to her that his hair was behaving itself out of sheer terror as he drew closer. He had a pointed goatee, the kind cheesy villains that tied helpless heroines to the railroad tracks would have, she thought. And the way he dressed…

His waistcoat was velvet. Real. Red. Velvet. She had the sneaking suspicion that the spotless white lace that touched his wrists and throat had been hand-stitched. His eyes fell on her, and a wry smirk crossed his face as he looked her over. For a moment, Ana wondered how he knew, but then she remembered; none of the humani had noticed him, and she had.

The scent of blood clung to his aura, she caught it as he drew closer. She stifled her gag behind a coughing fit and tried to breathe through her mouth without tasting it. Could one taste an aura, even? She didn't want to find out.

"Bonjour," she choked out. Her French was flawless. "I…I'm Anastasia Nikolaevna."

She extended her hand tentatively, but was pleased to see it wasn't shaking like she thought it would be. The man pulled a handkerchief from his front pocket and shook it out, taking her hand with it and bringing it to his lips to kiss the back of it gently.

"Vlad Dracul," he said, and he dipped into a bow even as he held her hand, "Prince of Wallachia."

So courtly. So pompous. So…terrifying. She managed a nod, but her throat had gone dry again and she wasn't trusting herself to speak just then. Prince of Wallachia. She could have been that way, too, if she'd wanted to. She was a Grand Duchess, after all. Though, even in her childhood people had very seldom referred to her as such.

"May I ask why Raz sent you to me?" he asked, the gentlemanly tone still in his voice.

"He wanted me to help you," she said. Vlad rested a hand on the railing of the bridge and looked out over the water.

"Do you know what you're getting into?" he asked. She didn't. She'd been hoping he would tell her, but it didn't matter either way. Grigori had asked her to do this and she would not refuse him. That was never an option, not regarding the man who had treated her like a daughter for so many years.

"N-no," she said, and paused. When he didn't answer, she continued, "what was that a minute ago? That scream?"

He turned his eyes on her sidelong and that smirk was back on his face. "What scream?"