Transylvania, 1467

He could take no more of the nights of dancing with many fair women and then leaving, playing games with them. He could no longer stand the painted wings and fancy things and frilly lace dresses they wore...he needed, truly, something to do.  His mind was spinning more rapidly than the skirts of the girls laughing giddily on his arms, drowning him in misery and damnation.

He went out into the world then, out in a rage, or perhaps just boredom, who was he to say? He terrorised the villages and laughed as the townspeople screamed, and then went on to crush their faith...he went to defile their church.

Yes, it would cause him pain to enter, but he took no heed of that sensation, of any sensation, and instead walked right through into the cathedral where so many of them huddled whispering. They had thought they could be safe from him. They were very, very wrong.

He flew through and halted in front of the priest, who stood before a group of them all bowing in frantic prayer to God, the same God who had so hated him. The holy man held out a crucifix and stammered out words to hold him back. He laughed and snatched the item away from him and threw it through a window, shattering it. The firelight from the destruction he had caused lit up the jewellike glass and his eyes flashed demonically as he drained the priest of his blood before the horrified peasants. Surely this was the end. Surely none would survive.

And they were right in one thing. He did not truly need to feed anymore, the young priest had been quite enough. But there were the children of the night to think about, the wolves at his command, and the little rats and crawling things that obeyed him. He left the stench of fear and death in his wake and nothing stopped him. It was enough to hear them cry to excite him.

Then he heard a voice weeping, pleading him for mercy. He knew it, and had he any heartbeat, that would have deadened it.

He leapt over a corpse and knelt before the wretched girl. She was dying, and he knew it. Brushing the hair out of her face, he stared into her eyes. It couldn't be...but she was with him, wasn't she?

Unless he had left her. He shook his head scornfully. He always knew he'd leave her. She really should have listened.

He scooped her up into his arms carelessly and she struggled, her eyes widening in fear, before she fell unconscious. Then he stepped out of the burning church and watched nonchalantly the discord before him.

People were screaming, although the screams were less than they had been as many had died, babies were crying, wolves were howling...he felt oddly content for a moment, before his mind was consumed by dissatisfaction at the sight of such things that were, to a being like himself, only trivial.

A moan escaped from the girl's parted lips. He glanced down at her. Maybe it would be better to let her die. Better for her, better for him... but that would be letting him win. An ugly look crossed his face. He'd never lose....never.

He looked to the new moon, knowing through instinct where she was although most could not see her when she was newly born, and willed himself to transform. His body shifted and he took to flight, stretching his powerful black wings as he soared. If anyone had looked at the sky, they would have seen only a dark blot, blocking out the pinpricks of stars behind him.

The formidable black gates meant nothing to him. He simply flew right over them and landed. Still carrying the girl in his arms, he strode briskly into the Castle and set about to healing her.

But she was dying. It was obvious to him that she would not last. How could she possibly last, when she had been so terribly wounded? He shut his eyes, frowning slightly. It was odd that he had not notised her before when he'd obviously hit her with whatever had caused the injury...he sat on the bed beside her and put his hand on her bound stomach. It had been a bad cut, and it had been deep. It was unfair, really; he smoothed her dark hair back. It was slick with sweat, and her skin was hot and feverish. It would not be long now. He cursed beneath his breath.

But there was a way to save her, he realised, although he doubted she would like it. She had left in the first place because she had merely discovered how it was that he had returned. If she became the same...but then, if she were the same as he, she would not fear him. He thought about it, and the more he thought, the more he liked the idea.

He stroked his chin. He was rather bored with being alone, now that he thought of it.

She was conscious, but delirious. He touched her shoulder gently and she cried out in her delirium. He motioned one of his Dwergi over with a vial of medicine, then ordered him out of the room. He was a medical genius, and it was obvious to him and anyone else who could think of it. He took the vial and dipped the needle into it, then plunged the needle into her arm.

She gasped and tried to sit up, but she was too weak. She saw him and frowned slightly, squinting, as though she could not see him well.

"Who are you?" she asked. "How did I get here?"

He touched the tip of his finger to her lips. "Russa," he said, his voice deep and virile, his accent a growl in the back of his throat. "It has been so long."

Her expression changed from confusion to relief and she cried, "Vlad!" He held her close to him and whispered into her ear, "I have missed you."

"And I you," she replied fiercely, her strength not what it usually was. She was glad to see him. It was a good sign. Perhaps she did not remember what he was, nor would she care.

"Did Gabriel treat you well?" he asked, sounding casual enough, but cautious. She pulled back, unsure, frowning faintly as though trying to recall a dream.

"Gabriel?" she repeated.

He shook his head; she must have suffered from some form of amnesia. If so, there was a good chance Gabriel did not remember anything, either.

She shrugged, unaffected, and remained quite close to him. It was apparent to him that something troubled her a little.

"You haven't any heartbeat," she said slowly, and pressed her hand to his chest as though she would be able to feel it suddenly, as though it had always been there and she had been hallucinating.

"No, I haven't," he said carefully, looking down at her, his head still high. "Do you remember why?"

She thought, and as she fell upon the answer, her eyes shot open.

He smiled heartlessly. She had stumbled upon the reason.

She tried to sit up again, but she was far too weak. She finally gave up and pressed a hand to her stomach. Her breathing became shallow and she coughed up a few specks of blood onto his face. He touched his jaw where his features had been barely marred by the red liquid and licked it off his finger thoughtfully, as though it had been spilt honey.

"I'm dying," she said quietly. He nodded and she sighed. "I knew it," she said mournfully, and fell silent. They sat like that for a few minutes, and he looked out of a massive window, out at the sky. The full moon burned brightly in his vision, and he was mildly amazed at how she'd lasted for an entire month.

A thought struck him, one that had never occurred to him before: he'd regret it when she died. He glanced over at her, and sensed that she'd regret it, too.

"Russa," he remarked lightly, his accent heavy. Her fatigued eyes looked up at him. He felt her gaze, and looked at her with an ominous smile, his expression rather resembling something that looked sickeningly like triumph.

"There is another way," he went on slowly. "You would not be alive, but...you would not be dead, either." She looked up at him.

"You can not be serious," she said finally.

He sighed and stood up. "But I am, Russa," he continued, hands behind his back. ""Think of it—we could be together again, you and I.. this time forever."

She thought for a while. What did damnation mean to a creature that 't...would never die?

"Forever is a very long time," she said doubtfully. He took her hands in his own. "Not long enough," he said softly, and smiled deviously at her.
She took a deep breath and nodded. He held out his hands to her and she took them dubiously, and he drew her small frame to his.

"This may hurt a little," he murmured, and she watched in morbid fascination as his canines elongated, becoming fangs. Sleepily, as though her will was not her own, she let her head fall back, exposing her neck. Her gaze became unfocused and she felt his mouth come nearer to her bared throat, his breath hot on her skin. A tingling sensation overcame her when she felt the sharp tips of the extended incisors press against the sensitive area, then sink in. She cried out, but he cradled her and she became very still. It no longer pained her. In fact, it felt intoxicating. He brought his mouth away and looked at her contentedly. She could feel herself grow stronger, her energy return. It was all so much...

She looked around at herself, at the room, at him. She felt so powerful, and she loved it. Russa let out a delighted laugh and he laughed with her, linking arms with her and leading her into the hall to the top of a magnificent stairway.

"Welcome to your new home," he said. she gazed at the glorious ceiling, the brilliant surroundings, astounded, breathless.

"I hope you enjoy it here, Russa," he mentioned, then added, "Countess Russa."

Dedicated to mustang-grl, author of A Saint At My Side and a Demon In My Arms. 

Russa is pronounced Roosa, with a soft s sound and not a z. Think of the Transylvanian accent and you're cool.