In this one: Dracula regains his strength (and probably needs therapy).

By the time he made it back to his new home, Dracula was not only drained, but visibly so. Sunken cheeks, deep bags under his eyes, and yes—the greys were coming in, whites even—and fast. He knew he had to act quickly. He was not about to let himself get back to his condition in Transylvania.

It had taken quite the body count for Dracula to fully recover his youthful splendor and abilities he so depended on for his own identity. His tact for murder was less precise than usual. The Count had probably murdered more people in the past couple of days than he had ever done in such a short period of time, as he tried to recover as quickly as he could.

He was impatient, hungry…seething. Instead of luring people in, he sought them out aggressively, fed on them quickly, leaving behind a perfect parade of corpses, grotesquely killed, and more to come, perfect for Agatha's Detective friend to track down and maybe even flinch at.

And those who didn't die would become his. As did the others who showed up, in the courtyard of his mansion, seeking his guidance and leadership as their father of vampires.

However, there was the problem of his appetite. No matter how much he drank, or even how violently he killed-No matter how much blood he spilled, general cravings could not be satisfied. And he remained bothered, unsated. Restless and anxious even, which he was accustomed to, barely even remembered. Emotions were not his forte, and when he drank them in, they were fleeting.

It had been weeks since he had seen Agatha. That night when she had attacked him had been the last time. When she tried to kill him over a minor inconvenience, or so he thought. Apathetic as the Count was, it took until she punctured him in the chest to realize the seriousness of Agatha's feelings towards her Sisters, the seriousness of his crimes against her.

Dracula used to be more easily able to access her in dreams, reality, whatever the case. Now, not so much. He could no longer reach her. Intentionally, she had blocked him out (which she was now obviously very capable of doing), cut their little cord. Something she had accused him of creating, though he had not done so intentionally.

Her drinking more of his blood had filled her with his own power. How much more she possessed he could not be sure. He contemplated it often. Contemplated her.

He truly enjoyed meeting with Agatha, looked forward to it even. In fact, the meals he took were only a treat, secondary to his meetings with her. He had grown close to his bride, but of course, he would reap the benefits of what their connection offered. How could he not? It was too easy, or so he thought.

Perhaps even more agitating than her trying to kill him again was his inability to do the same. He had been weak. Sentimental, maybe.

Unsated. Awfully hungry. Broken.

As he mentally dissected his own condition, that last word came into his mind. He was not going to remain that way. The way he was constantly overthinking this was ridiculous.

Perhaps he had been so careless in his recent killing streak that he was not choosing his victims carefully enough. Or maybe he needed something more…detectable, and to take his time, like he did with his brides. That might satisfy him, curb the appetite.

He decided he would go out again do things differently. Dracula dressed with the all the newest clothes he had bought and found in England (usually taken from his victims, being as they didn't need it anymore), and this evening as he buttoned up his shirt he noticed the scarring in his chest from the silver his bride had stabbed him with. He did have a few battle scars of his own, but this was the only mark he had gotten in ages. He wondered if it would heal at all.

He visited the same bar he had told Agatha about once to seek out his next victim…Dracula did like to play with fire and didn't care in the least if he was found. In fact, he would welcome it.

"So what are you here for?" said a voice next to him.

Dracula was so deep in his thoughts he hadn't noticed the man, though this was exactly what he was here for. Fresh blood. More of it.

"Are we in prison?" joked the Count.

The man laughed, looked over him suggestively. He sat next to him, mug in hand, and obviously interested—but full of alcohol. The drunk part wasn't good, Dracula thought, but cheerful would be a nice change from the recent souring of his mood. Perhaps he could drink that in for a moment.

"What are you here for?" the man asked him.

"Murder," he smiled. "I was looking to get out of the house."

"Trouble with the wife?"

"Yes. Precisely."

"Well, I'm Henry."

"Dracula. Count Dracula," he elaborated.

"Nice to meet you, Count Dracula. So, you and the wife. What did you do?"

"Well, wait a minute now, she," he drew out the word, "She tried to kill me."

"Still begs the question, what did you do?" he asked the Count as he took a drink from his mug of alcohol. "You did something, or else you wouldn't have gotten whatever she had coming to you."

"Well," he smirked. "I had my way with her Sisters."

Henry's eyes widened. "Sisters? As in more than one?"

"Plural, yes."

"Well…You really did bad," he stated, taking another drink. "That's a loss. No wonder you're in trouble," he laughed.

If the Count hadn't been eager to carry out his plan, he might have slaughtered him right there. He seemed to have developed a temper of sorts lately.

"So you're not looking for my kind of company…?" he asked Dracula curiously.

"I am," the Count smiled at him, knowing he could hurry him out of the place already, drink his meal.

"Good," he said, obviously looking over the Count again, probably formulating ideas about what would (not) go on tonight.

"I just realized," he continued. "You haven't had a drink..."

"I'll have one in a bit," Dracula smiled, and leaned in. "Why don't we go to my place, or yours?"

"Now?"

"Now." said Dracula, standing up and motioning him to follow him out.

As they walked through the dark streets, Dracula held on to Henry's upper arm to steady him, a bit annoyed at the lack of coordination from his soon to be victim. The Count looked forward as he led them through the dim alleyways.

He thought about what Agatha had told him once—how she had spent time living on her own after her father's death. It was strange to think of her on the streets of some small town in Budapest, thieving to survive. To survive in such a manner would require a determination and resilience she had always proved to have had. He was a survivor himself, but he was unfamiliar with not having his needs met, and easy comforts practically served to him on a plate, even centuries ago.

"Almost there, aren't we?," said Dracula, remaining composed and again focusing on the task at hand. Distracting thoughts were not going to help him.

"Yeah. Feeling better?" Henry said, slurring his words to the Count.

"I've been feeling fine all evening," the Count smiled. He had it all planned out. Go inside, take a bite, drain him slowly.

"I don't think so," he said, "You've been thoughtful all night. See, I'm good at reading people…"

"Well, I'm not people," asserted the Count, delighted at the confused expression on his face. "I'm a vampire."

The man burst into laughter, and Dracula joined him along.

"I guess I won't be able to make you breakfast then, since I'm guessing that's your way of saying you'll be gone before the morning? Due to the sun and all?" he joked.

Dracula paused for a moment, assessing his words.

"Ah, yes. The sun. I am not fortunate enough to enjoy such a luxury."

"You're still feeling upset about the wife," Henry said.

"I'm fine," the Count reassured.

"Like I said, I can read people. Even nocturnal ones, Count Dracula…Let me guess—you want something sweet. Maybe this will help."

The Count narrowed his eyes at him as Henry stopped walking and took out something from his jacket pocket. Some kind of candy wrapped in plastic.

"It's peppermint."

Oh. That. Yes, the scent hit him immediately. A fresh reminder. It made him feel something. And he didn't like it at all.

"Very kind," said the Count, coming closer.

"I always keep some in my pockets just in case—"

Henry was frightened and stopped talking when he looked to his face…He knew something had gone terribly wrong in the Count's mind, for as soon as he took out the stupid piece of candy, Dracula's calm demeanor was extinguished like a flame put out.

"What are you—"

The man struggled for air and dropped the candy he held, as Dracula wrapped his large hand around his neck and easily pulled him up against a wall in the nearest alley.

Dracula was somehow intensely affected by the reminder. The memory of her strange insistence on passing out candy to children because of some strange tradition, and her willingness to share some time of it with him. But that night, and ever since then, he took more than what she offered. And yes, he had grown to maybe regret it.

He was agitated about it, those moments, and there were a few of them. And now he was now thinking far too much about it—about her. The times when he had played his cards right and they weren't at each other's throats, when she had to give him the chance because they were on each other's minds. He lost the opportunity, it slipped through his own grasp because of his own nature.

But—as his mind battled against his own strange regret, he thought-Agatha knew who he was. And now he was being punished for it. He had been kind to her. And he did think they had formed a warped sort of friendship in spite of everything. What did the rest matter?

She punished him when she pushed the silver into his chest, and when she lured him in and drank from him, and she punished him now when she denied him. Still, Dracula sought her out—often- but his dreams were void, if he dreamt at all. An abstaining of their bond, against his will. He felt he was unwillingly seeking the return of it.

But now he was deprived, haunted by the solitude he had always lived with before her. It was maddening. Not being able to reach out, connect, or feel even, when she allowed him to. Though this in itself was no doubt a bad idea—he contemplated he may even give her another chance to kill him, if she allowed him to see her.

With this thought in mind he came to a decision.

"I think you're right. I am still upset about the wife." he said as the man gagged and gasped for air, struggling against the wall.

"She is punishing me for acting out. But I will not be ignored. And I will ensure nothing gets in my way," he raised his eyebrows at the man and smiled.

Count Dracula tilted his head and sighed, inspecting the extent of his victim's struggle.

"Any last words?" he asked, loosening his grip on him slightly.

Henry coughed before responding.

"I can see why she tried to kill you."

The Count dug his sharp claws in his throat instantaneously. There was a sound at his death, perhaps not noticeable to human ears, but he heard it and pushed in his nails harder even, flesh and throat leaking with his blood.

Count Dracula grinned widely, retracting his fangs and piercing his throat there in the darkness of the alley. He drank him in quickly.