Disclaimer: Young Dracula is owned by people who own it, which just happens to not be me. The OC's however... yeah—I own 'em!

Author's Note: Have I been on a role of late or what? Whatever happened before the Clan Leader shows up? Let's just say, the Count's at it again, Bertrand attempts to—why don't you read the chapter instead! :D

Insanity Is My Second Name: Thank you so much! I wasn't sure about her name at first, but after the read throughs Lavinia just fit Bertrand so perfectly. As for Gothar attacking Myra: it is real, but a memory she repressed. The memory forms whilst she is in the Dreamworld and Myra re-experiences the events (as we know—whatever happens in the Dreamworld happens to them outside of it) so you're right!

Reality Slayed the Dreamer: Amazing? **fans self dramatically** Well thank you! As for being creepy, I think that's the main role the tears of blood serve (aside from some dramatic story plot which shall be revealed in events to come)—I mean, if I started bleeding from my eyes I'd be screaming my head off! Myra takes it so...calmly... Oh, and you're most welcome, dedications make me smile :)

Drink My Soul

So not only is this chapter dedicated to the two fantastical people above—but it's also dedicated to my cold—not because I'm happy it's here, but mainly because it's kept me at a computer long enough to write this! Enjoy.

Chapter Eight: Preparations

"Failure is nature's plan to prepare you for great responsibilities."

–Napoleon Hill

She wasn't in the blood cellar, the kitchen or his private library. Three places she would have, in times past, spent most of her time. In the end, the Count decided to check her room- not that he wanted to, mind you. Women, he had learnt over his many years, were very peculiar about their space and when they had an argument?—The Count shuddered—Well, they could be quite... turbulent. Flitting to the door, he heard muttering on the other side. Not a conversation, he noted, simply inane nattering and placed it down to the De Fortunessa's habit of thinking out loud.

"Where in garlic's name is Renfield?" Myra hissed, as Count Dracula pushed the door open, observing the goddess before him. Though he could only see her back, the white blouse fit snugly, showing the curvaceous body hidden underneath and the black skirt showing skin so pale it was like the moon kissed—the Count swallowed sharply, almost forgetting himself in a moment. He was not about to open that door again. Myra spun around in an instant, "Bertrand! It happened again—...oh."

The two froze upon seeing one another.

Just below her eyes were streaks of red, wiped away from her nose. The Count, however, was not an idiot. She had...blood, on her...face.

Again? How had it happened the first time? Vampires were not supposed to bleed that was a job for breathers. There was no scent, from the blood either, like there should have been. But none could mistake the streaks on her face, the slight splattering on her shirt and the rags on the floor. Somehow (though it shouldn't really surprise the Regent as Myra tended to do the unexplainable) had that happened? The Count felt a muscle twitch near his nose. "What," he asked in a monotone, pointing, "is that?"

She glanced quickly to the sides, as her brows met in a look of confusion. "I had an accident?" she responded softly, hopefully.

The Count rolled his eyes. "With what? A blood bag and a door?" she nodded and the Count sighed, "I was joking—Myra."

Her eyes connected to the gold button near his midsection. In an undertone she replied, "I know, I just—I hoped you would never see this."

"And what is 'this'? Exactly." She shrugged. "Myra," the Count began exasperated, "I allow you to stay even after you hit me, I search for you even after you hyper-suade me—"

Myra glared at him, eyes stinging but not only from the bleeding. How dare he treat her like such a burden? She was not his guest, but rather his son's. "If I remember correctly, you were going to kick me out regardless of what I did or did not do, and I didn't ask you to find me. You made that decision all on your own."

"Right," he said slowly, thoughtfully. Deciding what best fit his frustration, and he landed on one: Hyper-suasion. It was not fair, he couldn't fight that and it was that he decided which frustrated him the most about her. Well, that and her looks which distracted him more often than not—but he would keep that to himself. With a light voice he said, "But, hyper-suasion Myra—you crossed the line at that."

She 'crossed the line'? Myra felt anger boil at the very pit of her stomach—this may be the vampire she cared for so long ago, but no Vampire would ever tell her what her limits were. Not now, not after everything she's been through and especially not after recent events.

"How dare you!" she shouted, eyes flashing dangerously, "You push and push for a reaction, Count but when one comes that you do not like, you flee and strike again at the next available moment! Battering the same point again and again!" the Golden eyes were bright as she spoke, and the eldest Dracula watched enchanted as she moved about in front of him, hands gesturing, voice sharp. "Hyper-suasion is supposed to be my last resort, the only power I have to defend myself from vampires like you!" she let out a bitter laugh.

"'I am for the Chosen One,'" she sung to him, "Do you remember how every vampire would tell me that? Young or old? Clan leader or Half-Fang? My power, Count Dracula, is apparently for your son. But what's the point? If Gothar, since you seem to have a fetish for his name, is after me at every turn—" she let out a sharp breath before pointing to her face sharply, "You want to know exactly what this is? Hm? Why I have blood on my face when, apparently, Vampires can't bleed? I don't know. Okay? I don't have the first clue as to why I can bleed—all I know is in the past week I've used my ability more than I have in the last one hundred plus years, also I've been more emotionally high strung. Both which I believe are contributing factors."

The Count was in awe, not so much listening to the words which she said—but the pure unedited emotion which had attracted him to Arabella in the first place. Which was now (he faintly realised) what he missed the most about her. Myra was still the same person, to some degree, but more refined yet emotional, and less...well, clingy. When the words she was pouring out (that he stopped listening to) finally finished, Myra froze before covering her mouth instantly and her eyes wide.

"I didn't mean to rant—" she murmured from behind the hand "—everything's happening at once and...I'm afraid."

And it was that which spurred the Count into moving. Stepping closer to her, he rested his hands on her shoulders. Relishing in their slim form and how they fit into the palm of his hand perfectly. He bowed his head closer to her; grey eyes warmed and while he squeezed those shoulders lightly. Maybe he would open that door again. Just to see what happened.

"You have no need to fear, Myra," he murmured and watched as those Golden eyes relaxed with the rest of her body. "Take a breath, and let's start again—what's the connection between your emotions, your ability and...the bleeding?"

Myra took a deep breath, melting into the grip which was both comforting and protective at the same time. She'd missed this: them. She forced herself to think.

"Now...whenever I use my powers, I feel myself loosing grips with this world and I enter the Dreamworld," she explained softly before adding, "and the bleeding started the other night after Bertrand accu—" she stopped herself short of explaining her theories to why the Dracula's were so strange, and changed tact, "after we had an argument. I was upset and was trying to sort through my emotions when Bertrand alerted me to," she looked away, "this."

The Count frowned. "Where is it you bleed from? I see no cuts on your face."

With a reluctant whisper she said, "My eyes." Then lent forwards, burying her face into the red velvet he wore inhaling sharply, trying to rein her emotions in. The Count unconsciously wrapped his arms around her. His mind racing: If she got too emotional her eyes would bleed, if she used her powers her eyes would bleed. What was happening to her? The Count couldn't risk a Clan Leader seeing her in this state, nor could he risk using her to buy time. Frustrated the Count barely swallowed his growl, merely a groaning in annoyance—but she was talking again,

"—Gothar," she hissed, "it has to be him, has to be."

The Count felt himself tense. Everything started with that imbecile—and with Myra. She had left him for him. He blinked recalling how Myra had been so abrupt with correcting him whenever the Count tried to call her Arabella. Perhaps she thought herself a different vampire from Arabella, and to some degree she was different, changed...vulnerable and yet stoic. Perfect, the Count thought.

"Perhaps," he intoned, not really wanting to think on it. He pulled her back, and locked eyes with her, hands on those shoulders once more. "I want you to stay here in this room," he requested, "We believe a Clan Leader is being called to by that blasted book your brother brought."

"I could distract—"

He narrowed his eyes. "No, Myra. Stay here, clean up, and rest."

"But Gothar—"

The Count dropped his head to his chin, groaning once more. "What does sleep have to do with that man?"

"Everything," she replied, "it was the reason I didn't wake up the first day—he was there...in the Dreamworld, waiting for me. If it hadn't been for you..." she faded off.

"He's been coming to you?" the Count asked slowly, raising his head. Once she nodded he asked, "Why?"

"He wanted to know if I'd found my brother, and if Bertrand had found the Chosen One," the Count looked at her in shock, she was a spy! She instantly deciphered his look and gripped his arm, "N-no! Vla—Count, I didn't tell him anything. I escaped from him, or at least I thought I did... apparently he let me go, but it...it doesn't make any sense."

"So," the Count stood pulling his arm away, voice dark, "inadvertently you have become a spy, a danger to us."

Her eyes glossed over and hung her head. "Inadvertently," she replied, "but...I didn't mean to, Vladimir. I just wanted to escape; I knew the danger if I accepted your Vlad's proposal—but, I honestly thought Gothar would leave me alone."

He warmed as Myra spoke his name, and any anger felt seemed to dissipate. He sighed, reaching forwards to raise her head. "'Inadvertently' implies that 'you didn't mean to', Myra," he murmured with smirk, "Vlad is a...he made the right decision asking you to come here, and you accepting makes you no less responsible for Gothar's decision. Is there anything I should know? Or anything else perhaps would work better."

Myra's small smile disappeared as quickly as it came. With a swallow she said, "I think he's after Vlad." The Count took a step and turned away from her, scrunching his fists. This was not the right time to be finding out about all the dangers Vlad had. With a look over his shoulder he said,

"Stay."

And once Myra nodded, the Count flittered away. The Count used to never really have an effect on her; he was arm candy at first and could make her laugh when she was Arabella...but now, Myra found she liked him more than perhaps was healthy. He would protect her, because she didn't know who else would. With an annoyed shake of the head, Myra bent down to pick up the rag and using the only clean spot left proceeded to scrub her cheeks vigorously.

A small smile snaking its' way onto her mouth.

Bertrand sat with his back against the wall, staring at the Praedictum Impaver wistfully. They'd been close, both of them, so very close. Vlad to finally opening the book, and he to finally seeing his beloved—Bertrand let out a bitter laugh. She would have made a cruel joke about Vlad's temperament and it would have had him laughing so hard a lung may've come up. He smiled softly as he stared at the floor, still feeling miserable. Usually he tried to not think about her, and just focused on applying himself on the task at hand—but the thought that his death might be fast approaching by a Clan Leader left him reminiscing about her: Lavinia Sicilia.

Bertrand let out a light chuckle, as he remembered Arabella asking him to decipher Lavinia's name.

"Bertrand, I've been meaning to ask— what sort of surname is 'Sicilia'? I've not heard of it before."

"It means 'from Sicily', Arabella," he explained from behind a tome detailing the best way to bite a running victim, "I'm surprised you've not asked her."

"Well," Arabella sighed, "I did. But she seemed intent on having me find out on my own. Something about 'if I enjoy reading so much, I should enjoy the etymology behind her name'."

Bertrand glanced up from the tome in interest. "So why ask me?"

"Why not?" she blinked innocently, "You have researched every tome in here, I thought it to be a waste of my time was I to do it myself."

Bertrand rolled his eyes. "Always the first to find the easy way out," he gave a sigh and recited, "The name Sicilia on the end of a name would equate to her being, 'Lavinia from Sicily'."

Arabella gave a pensive sigh. "So beautiful," she murmured, "Don't you think?"

Bertrand blinked, swallowing roughly. "If you say so, sister."

"I do."

She had been one of Myra's closest friends, and at first Bertrand thought of the girl as bothersome, irritating and most definitely incapable of doing nothing but laughing. There was no denying her looks, however—stunning red hair falling in delicate waves, which cascaded down milk white skin and eyes of the deepest brown that he had ever seen. Yet despite all the annoyances, he fell for her. Slowly at first. And as time went on Bertrand found he could barely concentrate on what he was doing, as all thoughts were going out to that one person he shouldn't like. Couldn't like.

Yet it was all the dangers behind liking her which made wanting to take her as his own, that much more appealing. So he went to his sister for advice. Myra had simply raised an eyebrow, smirking at him when Bertrand had tried to ask what he should do. There behind him, having heard his confession and frustrations was Lavinia herself, the Italian goddess. That was, without a doubt one of his more embarrassing moments.

"Lavinia, mia dea, it's times like this where I regret the slayers had not taken me as well. Together we could have died, and I would have been spared all this current emotional torment." He sighed, brooding was not exactly his forte—he wanted action to take place, not moping. "But I suppose little jester; things happen for a reason, I need only find mine."

He stood, and moved to his weapon collection removing his personal favourite, a Katana he had taken from a Japanese samurai he'd killed after his coming of age. At first Bertrand just held the blade in its sheath, feeling the familiar shape and weight.

"I've never seen such a look on your face before, Bertrand," Ingrid's voice sounded from behind, and the elder vampire gripped the encasement. Another annoying female.

"What do you want?" he ground out.

"To travel the world, see the sights, bite new and interesting people," she listed, "oh and power if you've got it." Bertrand turned to face her, thoroughly unamused. Ingrid smirked and rolled the grey eyes, "Take it you've never heard a joke."

"I take it you've never told one," he retorted. Ingrid smirk fled and she gritted her teeth. "I am in no mood for your games, spit it out Ingrid."

"I'm looking for Myra," she hissed.

"Obviously she's not here," Bertrand raising his eyebrows, "Unless you think I've"—he leant forwards and whispered overdramatically—"shrunk her!"

"What have I ever done to you?" she hissed.

Bertrand raised a brow. "Interrupted me," he pulled the Katana from its' sheath continuing in a whisper, "and that is perhaps the smallest crime you've committed."

Ingrid scrunched her fists in agitation. "If I remember: you asked me out," she growled, "And then framed Erin's 'almost death' on me."

A date? He scoffed at the notion that he could be with anyone other than his beloved. Bertrand walked forwards, sword by his side- the curved shape glinting maliciously in the light. "I never remember asking you on a date, Ingrid—nor have I the intention to. My exact words were 'you can take me to dinner, in the blood cellar, 8 o'clock'," he hissed. "Not the other way round." Ingrid felt herself go cold inside, through embarrassment and anger. If that's the way he wants to play, fine. She turned to leave. In this day and age, Bertrand had still asked her out, even if he deluded himself thinking he hadn't. "Oh and Ingrid," she halted, glancing over her shoulder, "try the coffin room—I'm sure she's resting."

It was wrong of her, she knew, to have had her hopes raised. After Will, Ingrid never wanted to look at another boy. But Bertrand was so, self assured and aware of his role, the idea of persuading him to join her was just so tantalising. A fantasy which would never happen, she realised now—so he would die, just like the rest of them.

Revenge would be sweet.

Ingrid didn't bother to knock when she got to the coffin room.

"Myra!" Ingrid roared as she swung the door open. The elder female, was oddly dressed—Sunglasses on her face, Bertrand's leather jacket over a black bra, and the Half-Fang's black skirt. "Whatever fashion magazines you've been looking at," Ingrid frowned, "have horribly misled you."

Myra quickly pulled the jacket over herself to cover the bra. "I was actually hoping you'd come by," she said quickly, "I'm sick of wearing the Half-fang's clothes—"

"I'd imagine so, she's so boring," Ingrid said.

Myra gritted her teeth. "I need clothes, obviously, would you mind lending me some?"

That gave Ingrid pause for thought. "And what would I get in return?"

"Me not running around half-naked, I'd imagine," Myra muttered, "What would you like?"

Ingrid was half tempted to ask Myra to kill her brother, but that would've been a thoroughly misplaced idea—Myra wouldn't have done that. Unless Ingrid could somehow make Arabella her ally, it was Myra whom said she was unambitious—"A favour."

Myra blinked. "What sort of favour?"

"I'm not sure yet, but put it this way, 'you owe me one'—when I decide what it is, you have to agree to do it."

Weighing up her options, Myra thought running around half-naked (until Renfield spontaneously appeared with clean clothes) would've been preferable, but would have enraged the Dracula female. "I will accept on one condition," she said. Ingrid narrowed her eyes, "if either the Count or our brothers deem this 'favour' both unorthodox and dangerous, I have the right to decline."

She wouldn't get much better than that, Ingrid noted. "Whatever," she muttered, "stay here I'm sure I can find something which will suit you."

Myra gave a small smile, and Ingrid rolled her eyes. She was enjoying the older vampire's company too much. "One question," Ingrid added as she walked towards the door.

"Only the one?"

"How do you deal with a clan leader?"

Myra let out a breath. "Each clan leader is different," she said leaning on Bertrand's closed coffin, "You have to judge both temperament and mannerisms which will give you an idea of how to act. For you in particular Ingrid, don't question their power, challenge it the way a woman would."

Ingrid looked over her shoulder. "And how is that?"

Myra smirked. "Simply, wile him with your wicked ways," she quoted thinking of Bertrand as Ingrid smirked, "that ought to do the trick."

"Too easy," Ingrid crooned and left Myra alone in the room laughing softly. She wasn't sure if she should be worried about Ingrid's thirst for power, or humoured by it. She just hoped that Ingrid knew when to stop. In that respect Ingrid and the Count were identical. Pushing the same point again and again—with any luck Ingrid knew when enough was enough.

Myra sighed, and dug her hands into the front pockets of Bertrand's jacket. Fingers brushing a folded piece of paper.

"What have we here?"

Erin frowned at the back of Vlad's head before it disappeared as another burst of speed ran through him. What had gotten into the Vampire? He'd been distant, and moody, not to mention the reluctance she saw when Vlad would touch her. Was she poison to him now because Bertrand knew she was a human?

Had Bertrand turned Vlad against her?

"Vlad!" she called, as he descended another staircase—she had no idea where he was heading, "Vlad where are we going?"

"—got to keep you safe," his voice sounded somewhere beneath her and Erin doubled her speed. Vlad turned to her with a bright smile, and Erin mimed it. Doubts being swept from her mind at the look of caring Vlad showed. "We're here," he said and Erin looked around.

The...cellar? "I'm not staying down here in the cellar."

Vlad sighed, and grabbed her hand leading her into a smaller room off the main hall. Erin felt her heart flutter slightly as his hand squeezed hers, "It's only until I can figure out a plan to get you safely away."

Vlad dropped her hand as Erin ventured further into a cobweb filled room. "It's creepy," she whined softly and turned to her vampire...boyfriend.

"And living with us isn't?" he joked, he took a step back, "I'll be back soon, I promise."

Erin gave mock frown and a nod. "You better be, or I'll be wrapped up with the rest of the spider food."

Vlad gave a soft laugh, eyes glinting in humour. With a short bow, he turned and left Erin alone...again.

He seemed to be doing that a lot, Erin thought as she found a small wooden chair in a corner, turning his back on her. But she trusted him...in theory.

Hesitantly, she sat and waited.

The Count paced back and forth across the main living area. Ingrid was perched contentedly on the table with Bertrand mere inches away. Wolfie sat behind them staring wide-eyed at the agitated Count. Vlad was in danger, he was in danger and Myra couldn't do a single thing to help them—she was weak and that was something which the Count found himself in excess of, people who could do naught without him. Not that Myra couldn't survive without him, the Count amended. Myra could of course hold her ground on an intellectual level but the Count knew nothing of her prowess in physical combat. So she was a liability, and the Regent sincerely hoped Myra stayed out of sight whilst the Dracula's and one De Fortunessa dealt with the problem at hand.

He paced faster.

"Master! Master!" the Count groaned, knees bending as if to give up on everything when Renfield came running into the room. He straightened and spun away from the pus-filled idiot, starting another lap. "Master, Miss McCauley would like a word."

The Count spun to him, leaning on the back of the arm chair one hand raised. "How about 'massacre'? Or 'annihilation'? Or 'slaughter'? Or blood-bath?"

All which they would be if the clan leader arrived and they were not prepared.

Renfield paused. "Is blood-bath two words?" then shook his head, remembering McCauley as he looked at the large heavy parcel he held in his hands, "She said it's urgent."

The Count had turned to face the fire-light fireplace, the flames dancing with his urgency and frustration. "Urgent?" he scoffed, "Some people just don't know the meaning of the word!" He turned away abruptly and headed for the door into the pathetic breather school.

"This came in the post for you—" Renfield started but was cut off by the Count's voice,

"You deal with it!"

Renfield unwrapped the parcel. With a frown he turned around, Ingrid came beside the insect-biter in a second. She bent, looking at a remarkably large bat. "Since when did Dad become a bat collector?"

Bertrand was on the other side instantly. "Let me see that!" Ingrid raised her eyes and stared at the hard grey through the glass. The way they inspected every detail, and met hers with a bright glint made Ingrid swallow suddenly. "This," Bertrand murmured softly, "is a rare specimen."

Renfield watched as the two vampires by his sides stood straight, when he noticed words. He frowned, mouthing them to himself before realising what the words meant, "Oh! Smash glass!"

Bertrand's eyes unlocked with Ingrid's in the next moment, hand raised—"Wait!" But it was too late. The idiotic breather dropped the glass and the room filled with smoke, as lighting flashed while thunder rumbled chaotically. Wolfie let out a howl and fled the room in panic.

Both vampires dropped to one knee, heads bowed, while Renfield remained frozen to the spot.

"I," a deep voice came from the mist, "am Ramanga."

Bertrand remained silent. Ingrid knew from her lessons as a child, that it was the women's job to welcome in a clan leader. Only, she had no idea what to say.

"Welcome," she started awkwardly, reluctant to continue though she knew she had to, "we are honoured with your presence."

Bertrand intoned a similar welcome in Latin, Ingrid wasn't sure what he said nor what it meant.

"Dom es mere dome tu est."

Only one phrase adequately summed up the mixed emotions of the people in the room and could only be said when Wolfie was not around:

Fuck. My. Life.

AN.2: Naughty, naughty! Language like that is what kills adjectives—but it fits so delectably well, does it not? So what are our opinions on this chapter?

Quick note, Bertrand calls Lavinia "My Goddess" in Italian.