Eternal Night (II) Chapter 10: Hunger, a van helsing fanfic

CW: reference to off-screen child abuse, graphic vampire violence/gore, and reference to past assault and trauma of an adult.

Chapter 10
Hunger

The thick glass mouth of a bottle clanked painfully against Frankie's teeth as she eagerly raised the bottom of the vessel upward, pouring its contents directly between her lips. The blood that saturated her tongue, however, did not placate her inner demon as she had hoped; that dark passenger who, though still restrained in the recesses of her mind, was growing impatient, now taking to pacing back and forth in its mental cage. Still, Frankie persisted, downing what was left before tossing the empty bottle into the sink and reaching for a second helping, tearing the cork out with her fangs.

Tempest's memories were still buzzing angrily about in her brain – flashes of images, random bursts of feeling. But it was Vlad's face her conscious mind seemed to fixate on most, as if some miniature, omniscient being were holding a remote control, fast-forwarding to all the points in Tempest's otherwise happy life where Dracula had made an appearance before slowing it all down for effect.

The thought of Vlad only seemed to put her demon more on edge, turning her presently unquenchable lust for blood into something more nefarious. Frankie knew deep down as she nursed a third bottle that human or dhampir blood – cloned or otherwise – was not what she really needed. Her demon wanted vampire blood… Vlad's blood.

As if that shadowed part of her needed to drive home the point, Frankie soon found her thoughts returning to that time in Carmen's cellar when she and Dracula had kissed. The recollection of his hands on her body, his lips on her skin, the weight of him as he pinned her up against the door, the way he rubbed himself against her like a feral animal… Frankie felt a tremor of lust ripple between her tightly clenched thighs and she swore, removing the bottle from her lips and placing it roughly on the counter before gripping the granite edge to steady herself.

"Good lord, Francesca, get control," she muttered to the empty flat. Despite her vocalized plea, however, her skin continued to crawl, another shiver moving down her spine, the channel of her cunt quivering.

This tension was going to be the death of her – or him, some dark voice countered in the back of her mind and her brows furrowed over her glowing eyes.

There was only one way to appease her inner demon and decompress at the same time.

She needed to hunt.

It was a foolish venture in her present condition. She could get caught, as public hunting was illegal and vampire-on-vampire mastication in particular severely frowned upon. Not to mention she could lose control and go into blood-rage if she wasn't careful. But the grumbling of her stomach and the way her dark passenger clawed at the back of her brain had her questioning the weight of the risks.

According to the time on the microwave, she had a couple more hours until dawn reared its ugly head, and finding some undesirable that no one would miss at this time of night would be a simple enough task.

Yes, she was rationalizing, but the excuses proved enough to appease her conscience. With her mind made up, she quickly scribbled a note of explanation onto a scrap of paper for Rémy, should he arrive home before her, and then she was out the door in a blur of brown hair and black trench.

Thirty minutes of a brisk walk and a ride on the metro later, Frankie emerged on the streets of the east side of the city, alert, though admittedly a bit high strung. Her demon was excited, pacing now like a large jungle cat on exhibit behind the bars of her ribcage, all eagerness and a dwindling sense of rationality.

Patience, Frankie thought to herself in a desperate attempt to maintain control. We'll both get what we want soon enough.

On autopilot, her feet proceeded to move her along the familiar winding streets, the general filth and degeneration incapable of fazing the immortal female who moved with purpose. She weaved through the crowd, eyes constantly scanning the faces that surrounded her, searching.

There were plenty of options, easy prey in a sea of unsuspecting victims, but Francesca's demon had a refined palate for more challenging quarry. It made things more interesting – not to mention more dangerous. Of course, the woman understood the risks involved, but her dark passenger's arguments for pursuing this course of action were proving as convincing as the harrowing growling of her stomach.

Passing by one of the Spider's brothels, Frankie made a point to quicken her pace, a familiar anxiety tightening in her chest as memories of her last encounter with Basilio flashed in her mind. But before the fear could take hold and push her forward, she paused abruptly, noticing something out of the corner of her eye.

Stepping out of the inconspicuous bordello was a man Frankie never would have dreamed of crossing paths with, not in a million years.

Krisztian Sokolov.

Council member. Villain. Murderer.

What were the bloody odds?

Frankie's eyes narrowed in recognition as she observed him, still unnoticed from across the street. The coincidence was almost too much! What was a council member doing here, and in this part of town no less? The wheels in her head began to turn as she started to stitch together the pieces of a puzzle she hadn't given much consideration until now.

For the last six months, Rémy had been having the movements of Augustine's council monitored and documented. While the majority remained within the safety of the borders of the north district, Krisztian apparently had a habit of frequenting the Spider's establishments – undoubtedly to check on his master's interests and to gather any news regarding the alliance, if there was any to be had. And according to the intel provided by a few alliance allies within the Spider's web, this particular council member also had certain… tastes.

Tastes that could only be pursued in the depraved shadows of such an establishment as the one that stood before her.

The orphanage situated alongside the feeding house made those preferences of his plain as day and Frankie felt her stomach knot as a wave of disgust overcame her.

The mere suggestion of the acts this monster must have just participated in was enough to fill her with a blinding, righteous anger, but it was Tempest's memories that transformed that fury to rage.

Her demon had chosen its prey.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew this course of action was foolish, but the sudden onset of tunnel vision made it impossible to see reason.

For the first time in years, Frankie and her dark passenger were of the same mind as her feet began to move her forward, stalking after Krisztian when he turned into the neighboring alley, licking his fingers of blood, oblivious of what now lingered in his shadow.

With her senses awash in memories, she pursued him, following the man at a safe distance as they travelled deeper and deeper into the seedy underbelly of the city.

She could see her father's face in her head, his brilliant blue eyes and head of dark chocolate brown hair. He had moved forward to defend Frankie and her mother from their attackers ominously cloaked in robes as they descended upon the small cottage they had inhabited in their effort to take refuge from the day. Yet despite the Duke's abilities as a warrior and head of his family, he was no match for the Fraternitatem et Sanguis. After sustaining a number of blows, he had been brought to his knees and with a single swing of sharpened steel, Frankie had watched in horror as the head of her beloved father had been removed from his shoulders.

The silver stake that found a home in his heart shortly thereafter had been the final blow to end it all, and in a terrifying moment of clarity, she had recognized – beyond a shadow of doubt – that it was there, in that crowded cottage, where the doors to hell resided. Krisztian's mockery of her father's passing as he held up the skull for Frankie and her mother to see had been the heartless welcome.

The rage continued to build within her as she recalled the events of the past, her eyes still locked to the back of Krisztian's skull, so lost to her anger and grief that she had failed to notice that he had seen her out of the corner of his eye when he had made that last turn. It wasn't until Frankie found herself suddenly alone in an inexplicably empty alley that she realized too late her mistake.

She could feel him standing behind her, that familiar presence so dark, so void of anything redeemable, pulsating just a few feet from her back. It was the click of the safety of a gun that brought her fully back to the present, however, and before he could paint the alley floor with her brains, she quickly moved out of the way just as the weapon went off.

He was using a silencer – thank God for small miracles , she thought, grateful that they'd be able to do this without drawing too much attention. She quickly moved to disarm him, snatching his wrist with one hand to keep him from pointing the gun at her face. Then she grabbed hold of the weapon still in his grip and twisted it down, breaking his trigger finger in the process. Once the pistol was in her hands, she quickly aimed the barrel directly at his face in warning, temporarily inspiring him to keep from lunging toward her.

Krisztian swore under his breath as his finger began to heal. Despite the pain and agitation, he dared to smile as if her actions had amused him.

"Well, well… aren't you clever?" he asked, but when Frankie cocked the gun, his smile fell a little.

"Shut up," she snapped. "Let me see your hands."

Though clearly annoyed, the man played along, raising his gloved hands slowly into the air.

"You're making a big mistake."

"I don't doubt that," was her reply as she pressed down on the release so the magazine of ammunition fell to her feet. She then tossed the unloaded gun away from them, still holding his gaze. His brow arched in confusion.

"So you know who I am and you're pursuing this foolish course anyway?" he inquired, appearing doubtful of her sanity, but Frankie's inner demon was snarling, gleeful at the prospect of tearing this man to pieces with nothing but her hands. Her fangs had already lengthened, a low growl reverberating in her chest.

"Oh, I know exactly who you are," she said, "though it's clear you've forgotten me."

"I've met thousands of stupid females over the centuries. What makes you so special?"

"You murdered my father."

"I've also murdered many fathers," he answered without ceremony. "You're going to have to be a little bit more specific than that."

"The French Alps near the border of Italy. Spring 1940."

He pretended to think on it as his eyes quickly darted about in search of an escape or perhaps a quick route to a more public location, but outside of doubling back, his options were limited.

"Still not ringing any bells."

"Really? Maybe this will refresh your memory," and Frankie grabbed the front of her V-neck blouse and pulled the collar to the side. Using two of her fingers, she then wiped away the special concealer she employed to mask the brand beneath her collarbone – the Dracul insignia.

Krisztian's eyes narrowed at first in disbelief before widening slowly in recognition as he took in that familiar dragon with its curling tail. The smirk he had been so arrogantly donning finally disappeared and Frankie dared to look triumphant.

"Y-you…" he whispered, shaking his head. "But you're… you're supposed to be dead! He killed you! Marcus said he had found a way to kill you!"

"Marcus lied."

In a blur of fury and inhuman speed, she moved on him, attacking with little more than her clawed hands. Her fanged mouth snapped in the direction of his neck. Krisztian managed to evade her, blocking her attack with his arm before swinging his other hand. Leather clad knuckles collided with the side of her face.

The blow made little impact; instead only inciting her rage further as she returned her gaze to his direction and snarled.

"Is that it?" she taunted him, voice not quite her own. "I could have sworn you used to hit harder."

She leapt forward, continuing her attack with a growing ferocity. But the councilman, despite being previously taken off-guard, held his own, blocking her attacks as best he could, though Frankie managed to get in a few good hits.

When her claws ran across his face, breaking the skin, the scent of his blood sent her inner demon toeing the line of frenzy. Her eyes began to go dark as the familiar blood-rage started to creep forward. A black viscous liquid of rage was leaking from her demon's mental cage as it growled and snapped inside of her, demanding to be unleashed.

Losing control, however, wasn't an option.

She knew her demon could easily finish this deplorable man in a matter of seconds, but the risk involved was too great. So she fought that growing shadow in the corner of her mind while simultaneously attempting to ward off Krisztian's own attacks. With every hit he got in, the more enraged her demon became until she rapidly began to lose her edge, battling not only the man before her now, but herself as well.

The assault on all fronts proved too much for Frankie to handle in her current condition.

She was still trying to grapple with Tempest's memories, and her growing hunger for fresh blood continued to go unstated, leaving her distracted, agitated. In a move she had not anticipated, Krisztian managed to grab hold of her throat and he pinned her roughly to the alley wall. His free hand soared, balled into a fist and ready to smash its way through her rib cage so he could grab hold of her heart, but she managed to grab his wrist with both hands, halting his progress.

Now it was a struggle of pure, unadulterated strength – he attempting to destroy her heart in some vain hope that it would at least buy him some time to escape; she struggling to keep him at bay. It became clear very quickly that he wouldn't be able to disengage her in the manner he had hoped. Her talon-like nails digging into the flesh of his arm made that abundantly plain. So he consigned himself to crushing her esophagus, pressing down hard on her neck while his long fingers squeezed the column, ready to break her neck with a single flick of his wrist to at least render her unconscious.

But before he could snap the bone, there was a ferocious growl from behind in the shadows as a hand grabbed hold of Krisztian's shoulder unexpectedly. The man was hurled off of Frankie in a single pull and she watched as the council member's body flew the short distance between the wall at her back and the other across the way with an audible smack, the old brick cracking and crumbling from the impact.

Torn between relief and outrage that someone would dare interfere with her revenge, Frankie was stopped short when she realized who it was that had come to her rescue.

Dracula.

He was a tower of muscle and power garbed in black, his eyes glowing an almost feral blue as rage and – dare she even think it – a kind of possessiveness darkened his features. His stance was tall, dominant, and he snarled in Krisztian's direction, ready to tear the man to pieces. Before the king of vampires could exact his chosen punishment, however, Frankie held out her hand as if to stop him.

"No!" she shouted at him the moment her throat had healed, just in time for Vlad to grab the councilman by the front of his shirt. The man had raised her enemy off the ground with only one arm, Krisztian's feet dangling helplessly.

Dracula turned his head in response to his intended's objection, his expression, while still dark, now filled with questioning.

He paused, awaiting Frankie's explanation, though he could guess by the bloodlust in her eyes the reason behind her vehement protestation.

"He is mine," she insisted passionately, fangs out, her dominant stance challenging his own.

Vladislaus allowed his eyes to rake over the woman before him, momentarily taking in her fury, evidently intrigued by what he saw. Unable to resist the temptation to watch her more primitive nature manifest itself, he used his free hand to grab the back of Krisztian's skull.

Then he held the man out in Frankie's direction as if he were offering her a pastry.

She moved forward to pounce, but he continued to grip the councilman's head in his hand, playfully pulling him back toward his person and away from her just enough to make her growl at him impatiently. His eyes were full of suggestion as she glared at him, not at all amused with his teasing.

"Then take what is yours," he commanded her.

Frankie felt something divine tingle its way through her body, starting at the crown of her head before traveling down to settle between her legs. She felt powerful under his gaze, the desire in Vlad's eyes unmistakable and for just a fraction of a moment, she hesitated.

He wanted to watch her feed.

Although he was giving her Krisztian to do with as she pleased, he was still the one in control, holding her prey in his hands.

Such a blatant display of supremacy would normally infuriate Frankie, but for the strangest reason, it seemed to heighten her own excitement.

Her inner demon, insisting on be sated, won over the demands of her pride, and in a moment possessed by this bewildering need to please the man in front of her, she closed the distance, grabbing hold of Krisztian's wrists when he tried to push her away before she cocked her head to one side and dove forward, latching onto the vampire's throat.

Her eyes held Vlad's the entire time, from the instant her teeth broke her victim's flesh, to those long minutes after as she drank feverishly from that erupting fountain of life-giving crimson. She devoured Krisztian's blood like a starved glutton, mouthfuls at a time until her face was stained, scarlet smearing around her lips and dribbling over her chin.

Dracula looked on, transfixed, enraptured, never blinking as he watched her mouth move sensuously around the gory bite mark, lips latched over the arterial spray as she sucked it in between deep breaths. Witnessing her in this state left him frightfully aroused as her bloodlust began to inspire his own and he felt the tips of his fangs lengthening in response.

Before he could even make a move to join her, however, she hissed in warning, a purely animalistic response as her eyes commanded he stay put. Her audacity amused him, and yet he obeyed, refraining from feasting with her, despite what the sight, smell, and sound of her pleasure was doing to him.

Krisztian eventually went limp in Vlad's hold. Any fight the man had previously possessed had all but dwindled away as Frankie proceeded to bleed him dry. When she had finally had her fill, in a ferocious burst of violence, she slammed her fist into the chest of the one who had taken so much, and just as he had attempted to do to her, she removed his heart. Snapping vein and artery, unfazed by the carnage and the stench, she pulled the organ from its prison of ribs and muscle. And in a grand display of sheer depravity she lifted it up and squeezed it like a sponge. Continuing to hold Vlad's gaze, she opened her greedy mouth as the blood dribbled down, her tongue extending outward to meet the remaining drips of crimson.

Dracula's jaw slackened a little in open awe of her exhibition, cock going leaden. Never before had this creature seemed more designed for him than she did in that moment.

She was ruthless, lustful, power-drunk… and utterly magnificent.

When Frankie finally finished, she dropped the handful of muscle to the ground before slamming the silver-tipped heel of her stiletto into Krisztian's heart and he was immediately reduced into little more than ash and memory.

The silence between the dragon and his future bride was pregnant, the air froth with tension as Vlad appraised her openly and without apology, eyes sweeping up and down over her, savoring what he saw. His gaze burned as he followed the rivulets of blood staining the flesh of her pulsating lips, the area around her mouth, down her chin, along the front of her neck. The small network of lusty red streams cradled on her breasts, all but threatening to drip down between that pair of unblemished perfection and he licked his lips, longing to clean her skin with his tongue.

Despite the temptation she presented, however, he remained motionless, maintaining an astonishing sense of mastery over himself, even as she bent down slowly to retrieve a handkerchief that had fallen from Krisztian's suit during their earlier scuffle.

Upon standing, she proceeded to wipe the crimson mess from her person, her needless breath coming out in deep and deliberate inhales and exhales as the high from her bloodlust gradually ebbed away. Her satiated inner demon was purring, content within its cage before finally going dormant.

Unlike her bloodlust, however, Frankie's desire for the man in front of her remained very much present, the way he was looking at her sending the faintest of blushes to creep into the apples of her cheeks.

At last, Dracula broke the silence.

"Miss Chase," he said, voice huskier than he had intended it to be, "that was very, very stupid."

His words, which were designed to be taken as chastisement, had instead been delivered in a tone akin to approval and it made Frankie's lips curl into a faint but mischievous half-smile.

"Tell me, Mr. Leinhart," she returned with a degree of pointedness, "was it your intention to come rallying to my defense like some sort of knight in shining armor? I may be a damsel, but we both know I could have handled that myself."

His smirk was entirely roguish.

A single dark brow rose in response to her comment.

"Do I look like a fairytale prince to you?" he inquired playfully.

"Hardly," was her reply.

While the word on its own could have been misconstrued as insult or censure, the quality of her voice was pure suggestion, as if she relished in the idea of him not inhabiting the role of the conventional and virtuous savior.

This only seemed to delight him further, their subtle flirtation something he was eager to continue, but they were interrupted by a commotion at the end of the alley, something sounding like a shout of frustration and the toppling over of a garbage can. In a movement that was wholly instinctual, Vlad grabbed hold of Frankie and moved her into some shadowy corner a ways away, using his body as a shield as they both looked in the direction of the noise.

Fortunately, it was only a couple of inebriated passers-by, the small group stumbling about in their drunken state, laughing at their friend's clumsiness before proceeding onward. When they had departed, Dracula looked back down at the woman a mere inch from his person. She was looking up at him, irises still glowing slightly as both became simultaneously aware of their nearness and the delicious sexual pull that only seemed to heighten with each passing moment.

"What are you doing in this part of town?" she inquired before he could lean in a little closer. "It's nearly dawn."

Though he maintained his current position, it proved quite the task. He could almost taste the blood that lingered in her mouth and it took everything in him to keep from dipping his head low to kiss her, to taste her.

"I should be asking you the same question," he replied in kind, voice like velvet as he stared hungrily at her lips.

"I asked first."

He smirked at her repartee. Her insistence of polite conversation helped him to conjure the strength to put a little distance between them, though he was secretly loathed to do so. He leaned back a bit.

"I was following up on a request from your brother," he explained. "The issue pertaining to the disposal of the infected blood in the blood factory this weekend still needed to be addressed."

"And were you able to find a solution?" she inquired a little more casually, straightening the lapels of her coat after she had finished wiping the rest of the blood from her person. She tossed the soiled handkerchief into a nearby dumpster as he took a step backwards to give her a little more space.

"I believe so, though I intend to review the particulars with him. Initially, he had hoped merely torching the blood would be enough…"

"You did remind him that blood is ninety-two percent water, right?" she asked archly.

"I did – so unfortunately we won't be able to indulge in your brother's surprising pyromaniacal tendencies."

She laughed at this as he took another step away, his posture straightening a bit more as he released a silent breath.

This woman had no idea what that smile of hers did to him.

Knowing perfectly well that being in motion would help to distract him from the uncomfortable state of his trousers, Vlad motioned with his hand toward the exit of the alley and with little effort she fell into step at his side as their conversation continued.

"You know, if Rémy has his heart set on lighting something on fire, I wouldn't be opposed to burning the actual factory down once any survivors are removed. My main concern remains the infected hemo."

"I agree."

"So tell me about this mystery solution of yours."

"Well, given his insistence when it comes to the timeline, I can't guarantee that it would be fully effective as there isn't enough time for proper testing. But over the years I have found the application of certain chemicals, like say hydrogen peroxide as an example, have been known to be most effective in the decomposition of not only blood and DNA, but bacteria as well. Now, we can't be sure if this would eradicate the viral antigen in its entirety, but even if some of it were left behind, the actual blood itself would be rendered completely useless – which solves our primary concern."

"I like where you're going with this… although where would we get our hands on those kind of chemicals, and in the quantity we'd need? Remember, we're talking several large vats of infected blood we have to neutralize – four-hundred thousand gallons at least."

"That's why we'd use this instead," and he removed a cylindrical container made of glass, roughly the size of his palm, containing a small number of large white capsules. He handed it to her so she could examine it.

"What is this?"

"You know how hydrogen peroxide reacts with the catalase enzyme in regular mortal blood?"

"Lots of foam and outrageous heat if the concentration is high enough?"

"Imagine that on a much grander scale. Just one of these," and he held up the vial of capsules after she returned it to him, "is supposed to have enough power to decompose roughly one thousand gallons of blood. So if the underlying assumption is that there are perhaps four to six one-hundred thousand gallon vats in the blood factory, we'd need roughly one hundred capsules per vat to get the job done – give or take. Then all we'd need to do is flush the foam into the waste and sewer system below to make sure we're not drowning in it by the time we're done."

"One thousand gallons of blood per one pill? That seems a little too good to be true, don't you think?"

"Well, why do you think the sewer system beneath the north district is so much cleaner than the rest of the city?" he offered with a sidelong glance as he placed the tube back in his inside coat pocket.

"You mean to tell me that Augustine has the rest of us practically living in our own filth when just one of those pills could turn a thousand gallons of blood into little more than water and oxygen gas?"

"Yes – although, these aren't exactly cheap to produce."

"You're not defending Marcus, now, are you?" she asked incredulously. He chuckled, though the sound proved more sad than jovial.

"No, I'm not. His general neglect isn't very surprising. He's never taken much pride in this city."

"I seriously doubt he's ever taken much pride in anything… outside of destroying people's lives," Frankie countered with noted bitterness, slipping her hands into the pockets of her trench coat as they stepped out onto the street.

Vlad turned to look at her.

The sexual energy from earlier had passed and in its place now existed a tension of a different kind. The topic of Augustine had caused Francesca Chase to habitually begin the process of closing herself off, raising the guard she had momentarily let slip. While the woman's expression remained relatively stoic, her eyes were now downcast, fixed on the sidewalk below her feet. She appeared world-weary all of a sudden, and though she remained by his side, in that moment, Frankie started to feel like she was drifting away from him.

He had yet to uncover all her secrets, but oh how he wished she would open up to him. He wanted to know her, to understand her pain and help her overcome and heal from it if he could. And not because he felt entitled to any of it, but because on some level he understood what it was like to carry several lifetimes of disappointment and loss on one's own. It was a terrible way to live. To this day, there still remained a part of Vladislaus that stubbornly insisted on pure autonomy, but experience had taught him, as it often does, that even the most private and independent of persons needs someone to help lighten the load from time to time.

Knowing he could never compel her to be vulnerable with him, he decided to once again take Bernardini's advice and lead by example. God, help him.

"He wasn't always this way, you know," he began, the sound of his voice seeming to pull her from her thoughts as she returned his gaze. "Marcus was born ambitious, always eager to prove himself. I used to wonder if the pressures placed upon him in his earlier years and the disappointments that persisted thereafter rooted those insecurities that have driven much of his actions since. But, perhaps he was always this way and none of us ever really saw it."

"No one is born a monster. We're made – all of us," she said, that use of we catching his attention. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she wrapped her arms around herself just then.

"We are," he conceded. "But I might contend that there's a difference between a person who may do monstrous things and someone who has allowed themselves to become a monster."

"Where do you draw the distinction?"

"In what lingers of their humanity."

Frankie quietly considered his words for a moment before responding,

"You've been acquainted with Marcus longer than any other person I know," she said. "I'm curious as to your take on things. Do you think he could ever be redeemed?"

"That's not my call to make," he answered carefully, "but given what I know? No – he's put himself far beyond anyone's reach by this point. Dracula, unfortunately, saw to that…" and Vlad's gaze fell to the ground as they continued to walk, the shame of his past actions slowly eating away at him.

"You mean… with what happened to Mathis."

He looked at her then, surprised that she even knew who that was. She shrugged a little.

"Bernardini told me." Vlad only nodded once in acknowledgment. "I think Marcus isolating after that happened is what did the most damage," she continued. "Speaking from experience, I know how instinctual it can be to want to pull away to be alone with your grief. But that pain… it only festers like an infection in the solitude, until it becomes so much that we have to completely numb ourselves to cope, to survive."

He understood perfectly well what she was describing. He had experienced it himself countless times over the centuries, especially in his earlier years as a vampire.

It was heartbreaking to think that this woman at his side knew firsthand what that felt like.

"May I ask you a question?" he then inquired. She nodded. "Why did you pursue Krisztian Sokolov this evening?"

When she neglected to answer right away, he continued.

"I know that you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself – you've proven your resiliency on a number of occasions – not that you ever needed to. But to go after a high-profile person like Sokolov, and without any support or protection, from what I can see anyway," and he quickly glanced over her person to make sure he hadn't overlooked any weapons she could have been carrying.

"You don't know that I was the one that pursued him. He very easily could have been the one to go after me," she pointed out, but Frankie wasn't deceiving anyone. His expression said as much. Her shoulders fell forward a little. "I don't know why I did it. I was hungry, he's a villain. I figured no one would miss him."

"I somehow doubt that's the true motive for such a rash decision," and he sent her a pointed look. "Come, come… tell me the truth and I may be less inclined to report the details of this little affair to your brother."

"Are you threatening to tattle on me?" she asked with a hoarse laugh.

"I don't make threats," he reminded her. "Only promises; and I am a man of my word, Francesca. One way or another, no matter how long it takes, I always follow-through in the end."

The sound of her given name on his lips made a delightful shiver run down the length of her spine and she straightened a little, letting her hands slide down to her sides for just a moment before placing them into the pockets of her coat.

"Has Rémy told you much about my unfortunate connection to our present dictator?" she inquired, lowering her voice as she stopped walking, the entrance to the metro little more than a block away from where they stood. Vlad turned to face her more fully.

"You mean outside of what he told me initially? No… he's provided no new insight on that matter."

Frankie was gratified to hear that, though she kept this to herself. With a slight motion of her head, she indicated that he should follow her into a quieter side street. When she was certain they were truly alone and could not be overheard, she leaned in a little, eyes on her feet, voice low.

"Do you remember last year the evening Rémy and I had visited your flat to retrieve his things and you had asked me about the death of our parents?"

He nodded.

"And you'll also recall my… adverse reaction to those opening chords of Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings?"

"Yes. I take it from your mentioning of this that there's a correlation?"

Her grave expression confirmed as much.

"In 1830, I was… betrothed, for lack of a better term, to a certain man of influence. The particulars are unimportant right now, but suffice it to say, Augustine believed that the union between myself and this man – though against our will and to this day unrealized and unacknowledged – was of great threat to him, a threat he needed to eradicate," she explained, her voice seeming to get softer with each word she uttered as her eyes continually scanned the dwindling crowd of people a yard or so beyond them.

"In the spring of 1940, during the second World War, my parents and I were traveling in the Alps. We were on our way to our family estate to take refuge from the fighting and had stopped at an abandoned cabin to rest during the light hours. We were barely a few hours from safety, but I was tired and my mother took pity on me, insisting we rest before finishing the journey. Suffice it to say, we never made it home."

"What happened?"

"Augustine's men, who were led at the time by Krisztian, had found us. They had been given orders to seize and deliver me to their master in Rome and any resistance was to be met with violence. When they tried to take me, my father came to my defense."

Frankie's eyes, which had been pretty much everywhere except Vlad's face, suddenly fell to the ground as she rubbed her arms idly as if suddenly cold.

"He was beaten into submission and then beheaded. My mother and I could do little more than watch. I don't know how long they tortured her before she finally met true death, but the last thing I remember before they snapped my neck, my final memory of her was the sound of her screaming."

After taking a deep and deliberate breath to try to steady herself, Frankie finally dared to look up at him. Vlad had said nothing, but his gaze was fixed as he listened intently to her every word. Despite his best efforts to appear composed, however, he could not entirely conceal the wretched guilt in his eyes.

"I was delivered to the Knights of the Holy Order, or what remained of them at the time, who then handed me over to Augustine. For three weeks straight, he tried to kill me, never once pausing for rest. But when nothing took, he… changed his tactics…"

She could tell that he wanted to ask what the villain had forced her to endure, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to utter the words.

"That Tchaikovsky serenade… he always played it at the beginning of our sessions." Her eyes had glossed over by now, the woman clearly somewhere else as she continued. "At first, his methods were merely angry, fueled by his frustration. But after a while, something in him shifted. He… he started to enjoy it. He and his brotherhood. I'd spend hours at a time strapped to a table or shackled to a wall or hanging from the ceiling… It was like… what they were doing, what he was doing… I was the proxy for someone else. I was suffering because he wanted to hurt someone else and I was the closest he could get to that person…"

Vladislaus felt his undead heart plummet as his gut churned with a nauseating anger. Francesca hadn't given him an inclination of what it was specifically she had endured, but given her reaction last year to just the opening measures of that song, not to mention the fear radiating from her right now… it wasn't hard to imagine.

She was looking down again, as if doing so would hide from him the tears that had been welling in her eyes. She quickly flicked them away before they could tumble down her cheeks.

"I was his prisoner for five years until I managed to break free with Lyra's help. A few weeks after our escape, my sire found us in the mountains and returned us home to my aunt and uncle. It was around that time that I finally learned of my mother's passing, though the details remain unknown to this day. Probably for the best."

Dracula waited for her to continue, but it was clear she wished to say no more on the subject, not that he could blame her. He unwillingly broke the silence.

"So when you saw Krisztian alone and unprotected…"

"I couldn't help myself," she confirmed, deciding it was best to leave out the part about her blood-rage and dark passenger for now. "I just… I saw red. It was like I was back in that cabin watching him murder my father… and then back in the catacombs beneath Rome. I'm sure my being hungry wasn't exactly working in his favor either."

Frankie attempted a lighthearted chuckle to dispel the tension, but it was tepid at best and the sound nearly broke Vlad's heart. His hand twitched, desperate to touch her face, to wipe away the rusting stream of a tear left behind; but he was unsure if such an act would be welcome. So instead he rested his palm on her shoulder, gently squeezing it in reassurance.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"It's not your fault," she replied immediately, urgency in her eyes, as if she wanted to say I don't blame you anymore.

He offered her a gentle but rueful smile.

It was clear that there was still so much to her story, so much she hadn't divulged, but it was more than he had ever hoped, given where they were right now.

He found himself thanking her.

Her brows furrowed just slightly in query, the woman clearly surprised by his response.

"For what?" she asked.

"For telling me."

"I've barely told you anything," she explained and he smiled a little.

"But I know how private you are. And I can only imagine the difficulty of opening up even just a little, especially when it comes to those things that are still painful for you."

"You'd think after nearly two centuries, I'd be better at talking about these sort of things in general."

He allowed his hand to fall back to his side, though he immediately mourned the loss of contact with her person, as chaste as it was.

"Well, I'm gratified and honored by your trust in me. Truly." Vlad paused for a moment, hesitant to continue, but he seemed so full of these leaps of faith this evening. "And as your friend," he added, though he found himself still struggling with the word, "I hope that someday you will come to trust me enough to share more with me… if it is what you desire."

Frankie's countenance softened as she privately grappled with her own amazement.

Dracula wanted to know her.

The notion surprised her and in the most pleasant way. Was she imagining things or was he yearning for more than… whatever it was between them in this moment?

She certainly was.

When Zeke and Jack had both implored her earlier this evening to give their father a chance, to give herself a chance with him, she had been convinced that such a course of action would be not only unfair, but impossible.

And yet, now… with Vladislaus looking at her the way he was, the way he simultaneously respected and pushed her in the ways that she needed, the way he made her feel safe in one of the more dangerous districts in all of Budapest… perhaps this wouldn't be so impossible after all?

Yes, the issues of her acidic blood and her unruly inner demon remained, but maybe, just maybe, there was still a shred of hope left, a lingering defiance against impossible odds.

"I'd like that," she said at last.

"In the meantime, might I have the pleasure of escorting you the rest of your way home?"

Frankie couldn't help the smile that curved her lips and for a moment, Dracula could have sworn his undead heart had beat just once when he realized that look she wore was for him. She nodded.

"I'd be grateful for your company."

And so they walked side-by-side down to the metro, and then the remaining blocks to her flat when they were dropped off in the west district.

The conversation that persisted was casual at best, topics consisting primarily of alliance business, though they were careful to speak in generalities rather than specifics to ensure the wrong ears wouldn't overhear them. But sooner than either would have preferred, they arrived at last to her doorstep just as the night sky had slowly begun to lighten.

Their effortless back and forth naturally dwindled into silence, and Frankie found herself unwilling to part company with Vlad just yet. She fiddled with her keys as she racked he brain for something else to talk about, something that would keep him here with her for just a little longer, but nothing was coming to mind.

"Thank you again for walking me home," she said rather lamely, internally berating herself for her sudden lack of finesse. But he smiled that naturally charming smile of his and she found herself leaning against the door a little.

"It was my pleasure," he answered, poised, contained, though the devil help him, it was a struggle. He had forgotten until this morning just how much he had missed talking with her, how effortless it could be. What he wouldn't give to stay just a little longer; he wasn't ready to part from her just yet.

"I'd, um… I'd invite you in for a nightcap or something, but the sun will be rising soon and I wouldn't want to keep you."

"Perhaps another time, then."

"I'd like that."

There it was again.

That tension.

Their eyes were locked, their persons close, but not nearly close enough. He was barely a step away – one short stride forward and he could have closed the distance between them, perhaps leaned forward to place a soft, lingering kiss on her lips. He wanted to kiss her. It would have been the most natural thing in the world, the perfect way to conclude his evening.

But before either one could decide on the next course of action, the door behind Frankie started to open and the woman straightened quickly before she could fall ungraciously into the entryway of her flat.

Rémy had appeared on the other side and he looked between his sister and friend with noted astonishment.

"Frankie! There you are. I was just about to go out to look for you. And Vlad… unexpected surprise seeing you so late. I hope everything is all right?"

"Yes. I just wanted to drop this off with you before I made my way home. The deal was a success. The gentlemen your contact put me in touch with agreed to sell us what we need for the weekend," and Dracula handed Francesca's brother the glass tube of white capsules.

He seemed pleased by the report.

"Excellent. How much are they asking for?"

"Nothing you need to worry about. I'll take care of the transaction as soon as we decide the quantity needed." Rémy began to protest, but Vlad lifted his hand in a request for silence. "No, I absolutely insist. It's the least I could do to make restitution for my previous absence."

"I told you there was no need to trouble yourself over that," Rémy assured him. "But I'm grateful to you. Truly, I am. I'd hate to think where we'd be without you."

"No worse off, I imagine," Dracula answered with what sounded like genuine humility to Frankie whose eyes hadn't left him since the exchange began. "Well, I must bid you good evening – or morning, rather."

"Yes! Yes, of course. We'll discuss the rest tonight. Have a good rest. And thank you again."

Vladislaus nodded in acknowledgement before returning his attention to the woman at his side. He offered her a small bow while holding her gaze.

"Miss Chase."

"Mr. Leinhart."

"Rémy."

"See ya, Vlad!" and he waved before heading back inside, studying the contents of the container with great curiosity, missing the exchange of looks passing between his friend and his sister.

After the man had departed and Frankie entered the safety of her apartment, the door sealed and locked behind her, she leaned against it for a moment, lost in a bit of a daze.

"So how was your evening, Frank?" her brother called from within.

She sighed, the corners of her lips curling just faintly.

"Eventful."