.: SEVENTEEN :.

...

Castelul Poenari, December 1769

Irina turned suddenly towards the voice, and – as she spun – the heel of her riding boot snagged in the hem of her skirts. The moment between one heartbeat and the next seemed to stretch as she stumbled sideways and felt the air open out beneath her, before she was suddenly pulled back and swirled away from the edge and into Vlad's arms. She held onto a breath as she turned her head and peered nervously over her shoulder – all the way down to the drifts of snow and the jagged rocks of the cliff face and lake icy below – and only when she was satisfied she was safe did she drop her forehead onto Vlad's chest and let it go.

Vlad looked down at her, a stern look in his eyes. "…I would have given you the tour if you'd asked, you know," he told her, raising a dark eyebrow.

Irina looked up, her eyes stumbling over his lips before she met his gaze. Her heart was racing, "You surprised me – again," she replied. She suddenly realised how tightly she was holding onto him; her fingers were clawing into his black coat and the thick, firm muscles of his upper arms.

Vlad chuckled as he waltzed her away from the edge, his hands gripping her bodice. "Ah, but you surprised me first," he countered, his blue eyes dancing across her face. "I wasn't expecting guests."

Irina wrinkled her nose, "…Yes, I can see that," she replied, lifting an eyebrow at the missing walls. The castle was a wreck; even if he had been expecting her, it would have been quite the feat to raise it from the rubble in time.

Vlad smirked. "…I confess, you've rather caught me off guard," he told her, his gaze dropping to her lips and to the smooth slope of her neck.

Irina tilted her head and shared his smirk; her body warmed all the way through to her frostbitten toes when he looked at her like that. "What, I didn't give you a chance to hide the bodies?" she teased, her hands sliding down his arms as she carefully stepped away.

Vlad hesitated. "…In a manner of speaking," he replied with a shrug as he followed her.

"Well, good," she replied, throwing her voice over her shoulder. "I'd hate to think you were holding out on me."

Vlad shadowed her; he traced every step she took as if he were hunting her, his eyes trained on her satin hide and the pale flesh hiding beneath it. "…You do realise that you're the first to breach this castle's defenses in over two hundred years," he told her.

"Am I?" Irina replied. She tested the stability of the wall beside her and then leaned back against it, neatly folding her hands neatly behind her back.

"Mm hm."

She narrowed her brown eyes, "Does that make you my prisoner?" she flirted, tilting her head back to look at him as he stopped in front of her – the crumbling, cold stones brushing the back of her head. "I hope so."

Vlad settled one hand on the wall beside her head, while the other reached out and cupped her face – his thumb brushing over her lips and the smattering of freckles across her cheek before tracing the line of her jaw.

Irina shivered.

"...I'm at your mercy, iubita mea," he whispered as his hand descended into the waterfall of brown curls falling over her shoulder.

She considered swatting his hand away but instead found herself frozen; she felt her whole scalp bristle at his touch. "…Perhaps I'll torture you then," she said, tilting her face upwards like a flower craning its petals towards the sun. "Gut you of your inner most secrets."

Vlad's thumb moved his hand onto her neck, to the spot where her pulse throbbed; he traced the pad of his thumb over it, feeling it vibrate beneath the skin with every beat. He groaned a little, his dark eyes pulling together as he whispered, "Your very presence is torture enough, Irina."

Irina battled the smile that forced its way across her lips.

It was madness; she barely knew him and the things she did know came with a clear and obvious warning, and yet... And yet! That heavy, whispering voice of his that constantly teased and challenged her, and the way the skin around his eyes creased when he smiled, and – God – just the way he looked at her; it was as if he could see not only right though all those layers of bone and satin, but right through her skin too. Why did she always feel utterly naked in his presence? It was infuriating.

Vlad stooped a little, his lips hovering over hers. The flame leaning towards the moth.

Would it be that terrible if she singed her wings a little? Would it?

She silenced the warning bell chiming out in her mind – screaming at her not to be so reckless – and then closed her eyes, lifted her chin, held her breath and waited to feel his lips against hers. And she thought she did – for a brief, maddening moment – before a sudden breeze gusted across her face and she heard a man yell on the other side of the tower.

Irina's eyes flew open to see Vlad gripping poor Ferenc by the neck and holding him threateningly over the crumbling edge of the tower.

Vlad snarled at him, "Who are you? You followed her here – why?" he demanded, a savage look in his eyes.

Ferenc gasped and gulped for air; his amber eyes full of terror as he scratched and scrambled and attempted to peel Vlad's fingers from his throat. He gulped and shook his head – kicking his boots and sending a small shower of stones skittering over the edge.

Vlad tightened his grip. His fingers were biting into Ferenc's throat. "Are there more of you? How many? Tell me!"

Irina pushed away from the wall. She hurried over and tugged on Vlad's arm, "Vlad, stop! What are you talking about?" she yelled, beating a fist between his broad shoulders when he wouldn't listen.

Vlad frowned over his shoulder. "Who is this man?" he demanded.

"He's my escort – he brought me here!" Irina shouted. "Let go of him!"

Vlad growled as he grabbed Ferenc by the jacket and then shoved him away from the edge.

Ferenc slid lid to the ground; he scuttled on his knees towards the nearest wall like a frightened spider – coughing and wheezing as he clutched his neck.

Irina rushed to check on him, cupping his face and sweeping her hand through his crop of hair. "Are you alright?" she asked.

Ferenc gazed up at her for a moment, then puffed his chest and nodded firmly. "I'm fine, Ducesa," he grunted. "...Nothing I can't handle."

Irina turned on Vlad. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, stomping over to him. She shoved him, "You could have killed him! He's Fiebe's brother, I trust him. And she trusts me!"

Vlad frowned, avoiding her angry gaze as he peered over the edge and into the darkness below. "…I'm sorry," he replied. "...As I said, I wasn't expecting guests."

Irina tugged at his shoulder, forcing him to look at her and explain. "Who were you expecting?" she demanded. "Assassins?"

She'd meant it almost as a joke, because, who even treated strangers to such a rude welcome? But then, he turned and faced her with a jaded look in his eyes – wild and weary with the world – and said, "…Well, it wouldn't be the first time."

As darkness shrouded Poenari, Vlad showed Irina into its empty cellar and then – beneath it – into the hidden subterranean levels of the castle's old fortifications. Burrowed deep into the clifftop were a series of vaulted, stone rooms – like a crypt – filled with a library of books, artwork and gilded furniture, as well as a dusty armory full of weaponry which looked as if it hadn't seen a battle in at least two centuries. There were rolled Persian rugs and coffee sets, sculptures that had survived the fall of the Roman Empire, a starkly modern-looking harpsichord, as well as locked coffers and chests full of mystery – and perhaps, gold; who knew?

"...So, this is home – or at least it will be until I'm able to restore the rest of the castle. My plans are rather adventurous to say the least," Vlad explained as he unlocked the gate leading into one of the rooms with a heavy, rusting iron key. He stepped aside and smiled as he gestured for her to enter, "Ladies first."

Irina looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to trick me and lock me away with the paintings, are you?" she joked as she picked up her skirts and stepped inside.

Vlad shrugged his lips. "Well, that would be fitting… to stash you away with all the other works of art I'm hoping to someday pin up against a wall."

It took her moment, but once she realised what he'd meant Irina spun and swatted his shoulder. "Behave," she warned, unable to hide her smirk.

Vlad crumpled slightly and grinned. "Oh, I don't think either of us want that."

Still shaken by the incident in the tower, Ferenc had chosen not to take the tour and had instead opted to stay in the courtyard and watch the horses – and nurse his flask of brandy. And so, Irina was alone, and she couldn't help flinching when Vlad shut the gate behind them with a clang. He moved to lock it but seemed to change his mind at the last minute and just pocketed the key instead.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked. "Most of this will furnish upstairs once the castle is restored. It'll be a palace to be envied from within and a fortress - a presence to be feared - from without."

Irina nodded as she untied her cloak and flopped it over the back of a chair. "I'm sure."

Vlad fiddled with the cuffs of his coat. "But this will do for now."

Irina took a deep breath – inhaling the smell of dust and decay. "It's very… cosy," she replied, running her fingers over the cold creases and cracks in the walls. "…No windows though," she added with a slight sigh. "That's a shame; I imagine sunrises here are really quite something."

Vlad turned and nodded his head. He smiled, "They are. Although, I admit that it's been a long time since I've seen one of them... a long time since I've seen the dawn–"

"Oh? You're not an early riser?" Irina asked, narrowing her brown eyes.

His lips quirked. "...No," he replied. "And in any case, these rooms weren't designed to offer views of the east, but rather to provide protection from it."

Irina wrinkled her nose and hummed in amusement. "Protection from the sunrise?"

Vlad raised a dark eyebrow, "Protection from the Turks, iubita mea."

"Ah."

"You see, these rooms that we're standing in were locked away until they were needed – whether that was during an attack, or a siege, or during an enemy occupation," Vlad explained as he strolled across to the racks of weaponry and scooped up a curved sword – a Turkish kilij – by its ornate, golden pommel. He rolled his wrist, neatly slicing the blade through the air and demonstrating his dexterity with it. The blade flashed in the candlelight.

Irina was entranced; the sight of him handling a sword so skillfully was disarming. As she stepped alongside him and then picked up a small rondel dagger, the ivory hilt intricately carved into the shape of a horse's head. She nodded at their surroundings, "It's quite the hideaway," she remarked.

"…There's even a secret passageway leading north from here into the foothills and forests near Hermannstadt," Vlad added, watching as she handled the dagger – as she gently turned it over in her hands and brushed her fingers precariously along the blade. The weapons were old but were still capable of drawing blood, and he held his breath as her thumb dragged from hilt to tip.

"Ah. So that's how you came to be in the forest that day," Irina realised, removing her hand from the blade. "And-"

Vlad relaxed.

"-I suppose, how you travel to and from Hermannstadt without having to deal with that absolutely terrible excuse for a road. You could have warned me, you know!" she complained, suddenly remembering that she'd have to make the journey back at some point - and in the dark.

Vlad held her gaze. "But then you might not have come."

Irina looked around, searching for some secret doorway or hatch. "...Well, where is it? Tell me."

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret, now would it?" he purred as he carefully slid the kilij back onto the rack.

Irina raised both her eyebrows and the dagger, holding the tip of the blade under his chin - among the cropped dark hairs shadowing it. "You don't trust me?"

Vlad sent her a scolding look. "I rarely place my trust in others, Irina," he replied simply as he lifted two fingers and used them to gently nudge the blade away from his throat.

"But I thought you were my prisoner," she teased. "And a soldier like you should know that after capture comes interrogation."

"Soldier?"

Irina pointed to the rack with the dagger. "Oh please," she said. "All these weapons, the way you handled that blade? I recognise a soldier when I see one; my father was one once."

Vlad looked away and frowned.

"So come on soldier," she taunted, raising the dagger again. "I want to know everything."

He sighed, unwilling to play. "I'd rather you didn't, Irina," he replied, adding as an afterthought, "It's nothing personal."

But it did feel personal, and Irina frowned slightly as she turned the dagger over in her hand and gave it back to him with an impatient sigh. "Why?"

Vlad put the dagger away, then leaned heavily against the rack. "Because."

"That's not answer."

"Because I take my privacy very seriously."

"…Is that why you live here? Alone; in the depths of a crumbling, abandoned castle?" Irina huffed as she turned away and gestured to the solitude and silence of their surroundings – with only the slight crackle of the many candles lighting the room for company.

Vlad took a breath, then nodded. "Yes."

"But, without even a single servant?"

He chuckled. "If you can imagine."

"You jest, but I mean, who tends to your clothes, your linens?" Irina asked, gesturing to his coat, his immaculately polished boots. "Who sweeps the fireplace and replenishes all these candles when they burn out?"

"I do."

Irina was amazed.

Vlad shrugged his lips. "I've never been reliant on others – not for a very long time, anyway," he told her.

Irina scoffed, she couldn't fathom it; what use was there in having a great big castle if you wouldn't share it with anyone? "But," she began, shaking her head, "aren't you terribly lonely?"

"Yes," he admitted without missing a beat. "I don't enjoy solitude, but I also don't see the advantage in forming attachments that will never – that can never last."

Irina groaned. "I'm not suggesting you form a life-long attachment, Vlad," she said, "I just don't see why you haven't hired anyone to help you manage this place... I mean, to close yourself off like this, it's like you're..."

Vlad hesitated; he glanced down at his boots.

She took a sudden step closer to him, searching his blue eyes. "You're frightened."

Vlad's brow furrowed slightly. He raised his chin like a shield; it was almost as if he'd suddenly snatched up one of the real and very dusty old shields lying on the rack beside him and hoisted it into the space in front of him - the space Irina was slowly invading.

Her lips curled slowly. She nodded, "Yes. That's it, isn't it? That's why you lock yourself away here and only venture into town to indulge in some ridiculous semblance of human contact - behind closed doors or behind a mask. You have some dark secret that you're too afraid to share with the world," she purred – tilting her head as she gazed up at him. "…And so, you hide yourself away - here – and refuse to invite others in because you fear they'll never accept it – they'll never accept you."

Vlad locked his blue eyes on hers. His dark brows furrowed slightly.

"You see," she whispered. "I have keen senses too."

"And yet, I invited you here," he challenged, peering down his nose at her.

"Yes, you did. And here I am - but why? If I'm only to be a passing acquaintance - or an attachment that can never last," she accused as she swirled away from him and strolled over to the harpsichord in the corner. It had been placed beside to a stone archway leading through into a room being used as a bedchamber – complete with a vast mahogany bed draped in an opulent red counterpane. She lifted the lid and brushed her fingers over the wooden keys – descending the octaves like stairs. She slid onto the stool and planted her hands – her fingertips finding their way to the starting position of an old Scarlatti Sonata she liked to play. "…Am I to suppose that I'm the exception to your rule?"

Vlad stared - finding the sight of her making herself at home rather disarming. "…Perhaps I simply have a weakness for beautiful women."

"Or just women in general," Irina practically snapped as she began to play – mournful minor scales and trills echoing in the stone chamber.

Vlad looked down and chuckled. "Ah yes," he said. He strolled across the room to join her, "Léonie did tell me she suffered an unpleasant encounter with the Duchess of Brunswick."

Irina sneered at him from over the lid. Léonie. Such a pretty name. "You mean it has a name?"

"You know she does, you infuriating harpy," he growled.

Irina smirked slightly as she continued to play - gluing her eyes to the keys.

"She told me that the Duchess threatened her with a pistol and then raised her skirts in the middle of the town square," he said, tutting as he leaned his arm on the edge of the harpsichord and watched the mechanism – chasing the wooden jacks rising and falling like waves. "She said that she'd never encountered such a woman in her life - a statement I wholeheartedly agreed with."

Irina ignored him as she carried on punching her fingers into the keys; rattling furiously through the sonata at twice the tempo she usually went. Her old tutor would have rapped her knuckles.

Vlad stooped in an attempt to catch her gaze. "…She said, she was offered diamonds worth twelve thousand gulden. Twelve thousand gulden for the truth. The truth about me."

There was a dissonant shriek as Irina's middle finger slipped and fudged an arpeggio. She huffed as she removed her hands, folded them neatly in her lap and then looked up at Vlad.

He instantly slipped into the empty stool-space beside her – facing away from the keys, facing her. He raised his dark eyebrows, "But then… I think you already know it, don't you, Duchess?"

Irina looked at him, her brown eyes searching his face. "Your dark secret?" she replied. She inhaled sharply, then nodded as she breathed out, "Yes, I think I do."

"And still you came?"

"…It would appear so," she replied.

Vlad reached out and cupped her neck, and when she didn't flinch, he smoothed his thumb down from her chin to the hollow at the base of her throat.

Irina shuddered and closed her eyes, leaning into his hand like an affectionate cat. "I tried not to," she admitted. "But I couldn't seem to help myself."

"You've heard the stories, Irina," he said, his eyes joining her freckles. "You're not afraid that I lured you here with the intention of imprisoning you and then feasting upon you - devouring you, body and soul?"

Irina placed her hand over his, wrapping her fingers around the thick digits. "…Perhaps that's exactly why I came," she whispered as she turned her head slightly and brushed her lips against the side of his hand. "Perhaps that's exactly what I want."

Vlad all but growled. "And what of your precious reputation?"

A fearful flicker flashed in her eyes. "Ferenc is the only one who knows I'm here," she replied, trying to convince herself. She took a steeling breath, "No one will have to know."

Vlad leaned in closer, teasing his lips in front of hers, "Irina-"

She pressed her fingertips to his lips, halting his advance. "But," she said, "before we proceed, you should know, I refuse to play second fiddle to any woman. Any woman. Especially women called," she grit her teeth, "Léonie."

She couldn't see Vlad's lips, but she could tell he was amused; she felt his lips pull beneath her fingertips and noticed how the skin around his blue eyes wrinkled.

"…And, secondly… I came here because I want to know you. I want the truth. I demand it. All of it. However insane or impossible it might sound; I want to hear it from you - and only you," she told him, dropping her hand. She waved it, "Because I've lied for you and protected you countless times already, kept you hidden - God only knows why - but, I think it's time I knew exactly what it is that I'm protecting. You owe me that much. I mean I don't even know your family name! I've enough on my plate as it is - what with the wretched council on my back and my father falling gravely ill-"

Vlad snatched up her hand and kissed it. "...Irina-"

"Tell me the truth, Vlad," she urged. "The night of the attack - the wound in your shoulder. I've looked at your blood under my microscope... it's not normal. And I've tried to come up with a logical explanation for it but... I've come to the conclusion that I'm not sure there is one."

He looked at her for a long moment. He suddenly remembered what she'd once told him about scientists, how they needed to see things to believe their existence - and so he drew his lips back over his teeth like a snarling dog and popped his fangs.

Irina flinched. Her eyes widened; she glared at his pointed canines for what felt like a long time, before her eyes finally met his. "Then it is true."

"Now do you believe it?" he said, as he slowly drew them back in.

Irina swallowed and nodded. "…You are a Vampire."

"...I am," he replied, waiting for her to react fully. "And now you have the truth."

She snorted, "Some of it."

Vlad groaned.

"Well, I'm sorry; it answers a lot of questions, yes," she explained with a slight chuckle, "but it raises a lot more."

"...Oh good," he tutted, bracing himself for an interrogation.

She sighed at him, "Well what were you expecting? Were you hoping I'd scream or swoon?"

Vlad shrugged his lips. "Actually, yes."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not the swooning type," Irina replied with a shrug. "And come to think of it, I'm not the screaming type either-"

"We shall soon see about that," he muttered.

"-Unfortunately for you, I'm the full of annoying questions type. So." Irina's brown eyes waltzed over his face. "How old are you?"

Vlad shrugged his lips. "Three hundred and forty."

She choked on a breath. She almost laughed, "That's insane," she said, counting back the centuries and trying to place the man sitting beside her in time.

"It's true," he replied, risking a smile.

Irina reached out and touched his face, smoothing her fingertips over the fine lines around his eyes scientifically. There were some obvious signs of aging, like the shallow wrinkles across his forehead and around his eyes, and the occasional grey hair sprouting amongst the black ones around his temples - none of them were uncommon in a man approaching forty. A approaching three hundred and forty, though? That was an entirely different kettle of fish.

It was as if he was frozen in time. "…But you look so–"

Vlad raised one of his heavy, dark eyebrows at her, "I advise you to choose your next words very carefully, Duchess."

"–You look so… Well," she said, landing on the only suitable word that sprung to mind. She sat on it for a moment, then shrugged - her fingers slipping from his face and dropping into her lap. "You look well. Considering."

Vlad looked off to the side. He'd never felt so old. "Thank you."

When she could see he was disappointed, Irina reached out and cupped his face – gently turning it back towards her. She brushed her thumb through the short hairs along his chin and smiled at him, "Du bist eine schöne leiche," she told him. "You know I find you handsome. You really don't need me to tell you that."

Vlad's smirk was slow as he took her wrist and pulled her closer, guiding her arm over his shoulder and pulling her body to his. "True; I'd much rather you showed me," he drawled as his hand settled on her bodice, smoothing the fine satin over her ribs with his thumb.

Irina grinned as she wrapped her arm around his neck, finally diving her fingers into those black waves curling at the nape of his neck. They were just as soft and as thick as she'd imagined. She tilted her head and frowned suddenly, "So, when you told me that you'd once dined with the King of England, you were actually talking about–"

"Charles Stuart… the elder," Vlad replied with a nod, naming a monarch who'd been dead for almost a hundred years. He pulled a face, "Such a shame he ended up losing his head."

"Fascinating. And… the ball at Versailles?" Irina asked.

Vlad cast his mind back, "A masquerade to celebrate the wedding of the dauphin to some… some Spanish infanta – I forget her name," he said, brushing the distant memory aside with one hand. He smiled as - upon its return - it found its way into Irina's tail of brown curls, "Of course, everyone's eyes were on Madame Pompadour that night – especially those of the king," he said as his fingers played with the tapered ends, his knuckles brushing the flounces across her bodice.

Irina was breathless; every touch somehow sinking though the layers of bone and satin right through to her skin. She wanted to shed every single infuriating layer and feel those hands on her bare skin. She bit her lip at the thought. "…And Vienna?" she pressed on, fascinated. "I suppose you were there to hear the Pummerin ring out when the Empress was crowned. Or born, perhaps?"

Vlad eyed her fondly. "No… it was more recent than that," he told her as he swept her hair over her shoulder, baring the pale column of her neck, as well as the swell of her rising and falling chest.

Irina's muddy brown eyes sunk to his lips as she felt his gaze wash over her uncovered skin. She shivered, "And… what about–"

"Irina," Vlad interrupted with a heavy voice.

She blinked up at him. His eyes were hovering so close to her own that she could see the dark flecks floating in each steely blue iris. "...What?"

"Stop talking," he commanded softly as his hand moved into her hair.

And then he silenced her with a kiss.

Irina sat rigid on the harpsichord stool – every muscle and tendon in her body tightening – as his lips brushed purposefully against her own in a slow and lingering kiss. She inhaled sharply through her nose, breathing him in - the musk of his skin, his hair and his slightly fusty clothes. He filled her senses completely for an all too brief moment, and then – maddeningly – he broke away. And when she opened her eyes she found his gaze wildly searching hers – his blue eyes frantic, fevered.

"What - what is it?" she whispered, touching his face.

He frowned as he pressed his forehead to hers, his lips pulling into a tight line. "…I'm waiting for you to run away," he admitted, brushing his nose against hers.

"…Then don't give me a reason to," she purred as she pulled him down to her and deepened the kiss.

It had been years since her last kiss – years since that clinch in that dark cloister – and she found that once she'd finally given in, it was kind of difficult to stop. Not that she wanted to, of course; once Vlad's hand dropped to the small of her back – tangling in the laces of her bodice – and he drew her tightly into his embrace, she couldn't imagine wanting to be anywhere else. He kissed her thoroughly, fluently – as if he'd done so before – and when she tilted her head back and gulped for air, his lips found her jaw, her throat, her collarbone - hungrily grazing on any flesh he found.

Irina bent to his touch like a beech tree in a gale - arching and swaying - content to yield as he leaned over her. When his lips found their way onto her chest, kissing and licking their way over her breasts she rocked backwards. And when she fumbled a hand behind to steady herself, the palm of it accidentally slapped the harpsichord keys – a jarring chord sounding out.

Irina sniggered as Vlad dug his fingers into the front of her bodice and then roughly pulled her back to him. "…Uh, I still have questions, you know," she insisted as he nuzzled the slope of her shoulder - tugging the silk downwards to bare more of it.

"…I'm sure you do," he rasped.

She smirked as he began kissing a path up her neck and towards her lips.

"…Hundreds, no doubt."

"Yes… and I'm going to get through every single one of them – so don't think you can distract me so easily," Irina told him when his eyes reached hers.

Vlad kissed her – once, twice – and then nipped at her lower lip. When she whimpered, he grinned, "Oh, I think I can."

Irina kissed him back, surging upwards to meet his waiting lips. She couldn't believe she'd denied herself this for so long! She was clearly mad. "You did say that you were my prisoner."

"And I am," he replied, his hand falling and resting heavily on her breast. His thumb brushed over the lace fringing her neckline, "But I never said I was going to be a well-behaved one."

She raised an eyebrow. "…Can you really only go out at night?"

"Mm hm," Vlad murmured against her lips. His fingers tangled in the strings of her bodice - plucking and tugging as he tried to loosen them.

Irina pulled back slightly, "But... don't you miss the sunlight?" she asked, pitying him when she thought about the beautiful sunrise she'd seen that very morning – hazy pink hues shining through the freezing mist that sagged over the rooftops and steeples. "...Sunrises, sunsets?"

"I have the moonlight," he replied, shrugging his lips before planting a kiss just below her ear.

Irina closed her eyes and tried hard to concentrate as she felt her bodice become loose. She breathed deeply and tried to ignore the warm and insistent ache between her thighs. Doing just that was becomingly increasingly more difficult; the ache seemed to intensify with every touch. "And… what about holy water, the bible… crucifixes?" she listed, recalling what she'd read in Magia Posthuma.

Vlad practically rolled his eyes. They dropped onto the pale skin of her chest as he gently tugged at the neckline of her gown, peering down into it. "Water, wood pulp and crafted sticks of metal?" he replied distractedly as his hand dove into her stays and cupped her breast. "About as deadly as they sound."

Irina sighed heavily when his thumb swiped across her nipple.

He teased his lips in front of hers. "Except silver," he whispered. "Silver is… intolerable."

"...I think I know the feeling," she muttered, raising an eyebrow at him.

Vlad chuckled slightly, before he seized her lips again.

"…So, you can feel pain?"

"Of course."

"But you can heal quickly from it – from everything?" she challenged.

Vlad sighed impatiently. He pulled away and extricated his hand from her bodice. "...Almost everything," he replied. "...Drinking blood tends to speed up the healing process. The wound in my shoulder - it healed as quickly as it did because I'd fed just before stumbling into you."

Irina shifted in her seat, turning her body away from him and folding her arms. She tutted, "Ah. From Léonie, I suppose."

Vlad grinned; he quite enjoyed her jealously. He reached for her, sweeping the threads of brown hair out of her face, "Sustenance only, iubita mea," he promised her.

But Irina wasn't so easily pacified. "Sustenance?" she practically groaned. "Well, I eat porridge for so called sustenance every morning, Vlad, but surprisingly, I manage not to fuck the bowl between spoonfuls."

He laughed loudly, throwing his head back.

Irina poked his ribs. "A fair point, I think you'll agree."

He snatched her wrist and pulled her over his lap. "I do," he replied, stooping to kiss her.

Irina raised her eyebrows. "So?" she whispered. "What's the difference?"

He sighed at her, pondering the question for a moment before answering. "The flavour of blood varies from human to human, from place to place and - somehow - the taste of it can even be... situational. For example, the blood of a young, English Duke with an appetite for mutton fed upon while enjoying the opera will have an entirely different taste to the same man after he's just found out his father has died, or - let's say - a miserable and elderly peasant woman from Hungary who has spent most of her life pickled on Pálinka."

"Fascinating..." Irina replied, considering the science of it. "So there's no magic to it, then. It's just like wine, I suppose... I mean, aside from the different varieties of grape, there are so many other factors at play when it comes to making a good bottle."

Vlad practically rolled his eyes. "If you want be trite about it."

Irina sat up, her long tail of curls swinging down over her shoulder. She quirked her eyebrows, "So... is there a particular vintage that you're more partial to than others?"

He paused, then looked down and scoffed at his own hesitation.

"Come on, tell me," Irina purred.

He smiled as he reached out and kissed her softly. "...Well-fed, well-cultured, and..." He stopped. "Well..."

"Well what?"

Vlad eyes joined her freckles. "...Well-pleasured."

Irina snorted at him. "You're not serious."

He held his hands up, "It affects the taste - substantially - I've no idea why," he told her. "You're the scientist, perhaps you can explain it."

She shrugged and shook her head. "...I can't. Though I'm sure there's a reason for it and that someone will be smart enough to work it out someday," she said. Then she realised, "So you don't love Léonie, then, you just love how she tastes when she-"

Vlad shrugged his lips, "Sustenance only, as I said."

"So then why does she think you're going to make her a vampire?" Irina asked. "She's convinced of it."

Vlad's hand settled heavily on her thigh. He looked down and breathed through his nose. He could see he was going to have to tell her everything; he'd opened himself up to her and now she was flooding in like the tide.

Irina raised her eyebrows at him. "...Well?" she persevered. "Are you?"

"Of course not," he replied. "The very idea of it is-"

"But you promised her that you would. Didn't you?" Irina assumed. "So she'd be bound to you to keep your secret, I suppose."

Vlad nodded. "Yes."

Irina scoffed and sent him a look. She didn't care about the girl, but still, "That's cruel, Vlad. To string her along and use her for-"

Vlad took a breath. "Making her what I am would be far more cruel, Irina."

"...Oh I don't know," she replied, "I can certainly see why she wants it - wants you. I mean, to have that kind of power… and time… to never get old, to live forever–"

Vlad frowned. "To live forever," he said, repeating her words in a much heavier voice. "I don't think you quite understand the weight of that word, Irina. It's barely a measurement of time - it's impossibly infinite."

"So?"

"So, consider it. Really consider what that means," he said.

Irina tried to, but came up empty. She shook her head. "I don't understand."

"Living forever means leaving beyond a single lifetime. Beyond multiple lifetimes. It means watching everyone you care about grow old and die - every single one of them until you're the only one left," he explained. "Until you're completely alone. Forever."

A pained look painted Irina's features as realisation set in. "Oh."

Vlad looked at her and nodded. "Oh. Yes, Oh."

Irina tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "I hadn't really thought about that," she mumbled. Still, surely there were benefits. "But still-"

"I know what you're thinking - you're thinking that there must be benefits. Well, obviously. After those first hundred years or so limp by while you try to forget everyone you ever cared about - try to swallow the grief for your former existence... And then one day, all that grief and sadness simply dries up, and then you attempt to replace that emptiness at death's expense - feasting and fucking and losing whatever last shred of humanity happens to have lingered on," Vlad went on, throwing his hand around as he spoke. He locked eyes with her, "But then? Do you know what happens?"

Irina shook her head. "No."

"It all becomes boring," he told her. "Everything becomes boring – because you've seen it all before, at least a hundred times, if not a thousand. Just breathing becomes boring. Faces, people - they all mould into one. And never mind the ones that do happen to pique your interest; you can't form normal relationships anymore. Forget about that, because - in case you haven't noticed - people don't tend to like vampires. You may not have screamed or swooned, but most do. And even if by some miracle they didn't and you came to care for one another, would you really want to sit around and watch them grow old and rot and die? And then start the whole process all over again. And again."

Irina suddenly felt sorry, and - honestly - a little deflated.

"Eventually you come to realise that alone is the only option."

She frowned. "I don't believe that," she replied, pulling her gown up over her shoulder.

Vlad took her hand in his, brushing his thumb across the knuckles and absently turning the rings sitting there.

Irina looked at him as he brought her hand to his lips. "It doesn't have to be that way, surely," she said. "You should be sharing this incredible power with the world - with those who'd be worthy of it."

"I couldn't do it," he told her.

"You mean, you've never created another of your kind?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Never intentionally."

She thought about her father. "... Not even to save their life?"

He planted a soft kiss to her knuckles. "By damning them instead? No."

Irina puzzled. "But... But, surely sharing such an existence with someone else would make it more tolerable? Enjoyable even? You could rule the world together."

"I'd have to find someone I'd be willing to live forever with first," he told her. "Rather difficult when you live a secluded life - and besides, I think the amount of people any one person could stomach spending an eternity with are few and far between."

She almost laughed - almost. "I suppose that's true," she replied; she could count on one hand how many people she'd consider living forever with, and even then, she wasn't sure. "Still, I think you're mad to hide away like this... I mean I understand, I do, or at least I'm trying to - but..." She looked at him seriously, "You could do so much."

He stared at her.

"So, who created you? Were they really that cruel?" Irina asked.

Vlad buckled under her soft, inquisitive gaze. He looked away for a moment, and then squeezed her hand as he helped her onto her feet. "Come with me," he whispered. "...There's something I want to show you."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know you're all thinking it - FINALLY, ammright? (Although I'm aware I'm once again being a total cock tease - sorry!) They were long overdue a chapter to themselves. Hope you've all had a lovely week whatever you've been up to - launching 100mph back into the swing of things after The Holidays if you're anything like me right now. It's been a long week. Anyway, hopefully this lovely, (very) long chapter made you smile after a long week back at work.

Thanks to everyone who's reading, following and favouriting - the alerts in my inbox totally make my week just so you know. :-) And massive thanks to Scarlet Empress and Remember for the lovely, lovely reviews (and for calling me out on my cruel cliffhangers and keeping Vlad locked away from you all for the sake of plot, ha!).

Historical/Language Notes:

Turkish Kilij: A type of curved long sword used by soldiers of the Ottoman Empire. If you break down the word it basically means, "To Kill".

Scarlatti: Giuseppe Domenico Scarlatti was a baroque composer who composed 555 keyboard sonatas. If you're a classically trained pianist then you're almost certain to have come across him. :-)

The Pummerin: The large bell in the tower of the main cathedral in Vienna - it used to ring out to mark special occasions like new Emperors and Empresses, royal births and weddings etc.

"Du bist eine schöne leiche": "You're a lovely corpse."