Eternal Night Chapter 1: Preface & Prologue, a van helsing fanfic

The contents herewith are copyright protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International Public License and all rights are retained by the author. Any form of plagiarism and/or copyright infringement – in whole or in part, for profit or otherwise – will be actioned.

The character of Dracula, though initially penned by Bram Stoker, is (at present) public domain and therefore free to use in the legal sense. While I do not own him (pity), I do claim the rights to this iteration of him.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to other works, characters, or real-life persons is purely coincidental unless otherwise stated.

IMPORTANT DRACULA CHARACTERIZATION NOTE: If you're familiar with my work, you've probably noticed that I like to play / take liberties with Dracula's character in each new undertaking. This story is no exception.

So if you're looking for the nihilism-meets-big-chaotic-energy Dracula of the film Van Helsing, sadly, he's not here. Some will no doubt feel this iteration of the Count is "OOC" at times – that he's not evil or heartless enough, etc. – but know that this is done intentionally. I'll touch on this more in a later author's note, but if this courtesy warning is already putting you off, then no hard feelings if you choose to sit this one out.

ADDITIONAL PUBLICATIONS: This story is also being posted on AO3 and Wattpad under the username MadameRemember. If you see this or any of my other works being posted anywhere else or by anyone else, know that it has been done without my consent and therefore constitutes as literary theft. Be a dear and report it as such.

COVER IMAGE: Photograph by low-field photography (Sarah Barlow + Stephen Schofield) for Flaunt Magazine, May 2017. Fair Use Notice: no copyright infringement intended. All rights belong to original artist.

RATING: Overall story rated "M" for graphic violence, adult themes, pervasive profanity and course language, some potentially triggering subject matter, and explicit sexual content. If you are underage, easily offended, or if you just wish to avoid exposure to any of the above, proceed at your own risk. I will do my best to post content or trigger warnings in advance, but ultimately you are accountable for what you choose to consume, not I.

GENRE: Predominately drama/romance, with a healthy amount of angst, horror, action, and urban fantasy thrown in for good measure. The bulk of the romance is of the unrepentant slow burn variety, with copious amounts of unresolved sexual tension; so if you're here for an immediate overabundance of smut, you've come to the wrong place. Rest assured, the smut will come, but it's going to be hard earned (pun intended). I apologize for nothing.

I should probably also note that this story is very AU/non-canonical in nature; more of an original work than a proper Van Helsing fan fiction. But this fandom is my home and I consider Dracula an old friend at this point, so if AU stuff isn't usually your preferred cup of tea, brace yourself for something new and exciting! Or you could just leave and read something else… that's fine too. Again, to reiterate what I said earlier – there's no hard feelings.

REVIEWS: PLEASE DON'T BE A LURKER! I've poured so much into this story and am not getting so much as a dime for my efforts. Your reviews are my compensation and your thoughts are important to me, so commentary, feedback, reactions, encouragement, predictions, and questions are all welcome! Plot suggestions and personal requests, however, are not.

OFFICIAL PLOT SUMMARY:

In stories such as these, it always comes down to the two… the divine pairing, bound by destiny.

THE DRAGON.
Vladislaus Drăculea has lost everything – his children, his allies, his potency, and now his throne. At the mercy of fate, he must abandon his identity and search amidst a city on the brink of revolution for the only person who can restore to him what has been lost – the one foretold to be his undying bride. Problem is, she wants nothing to do with him.

THE LIONESS.
Francesca Chase has been cursed with poison in her veins and a dark passenger that continually threatens to wreak havoc on all in her path – even those she loves. Grappling with a recent series of losses and the fear of losing control again, she's confronted with a choice: surrender to her destiny and the unknown power inside of her, or fight it tooth and nail, consequences be damned.

PREFACE: This has been a long time coming. Eternal Night was one of those stories that leapt into my head well over a decade ago, dug its fingers into my gray matter, and outright refused to vacate the premises until it was finally finished. I'm talking 14+ years of constant needling and nagging from a muse notorious for his capriciousness. And at long last, the day of reckoning has arrived.

Needless to say, this one took a lot out of me. It's also one of the most ambitious projects I've tackled to date and I experimented more with this story and its characters than I have with any of my others thus far. I can only hope I did it all justice.

At the end of the day, though, this was the story I needed to tell for myself. I know there will be a number of you who decide that this story isn't for you – and that's perfectly okay, because I didn't write it for you. I wrote it for me – and hopefully for a few of you others as well.

So wherever you end up falling on that spectrum of preference and enjoyment, your feedback/reviews are still wanted. Even if we have differing opinions or tastes, I'm interested in hearing your point of view; I'd like to learn from it where I can. If you can't review every chapter, I get it, but at least check in with me periodically to let me know where you're at, how you're feeling, etc. It would mean a lot to me.

And now, before I toddle off to drown my anxiety in a well-deserved masala chai latte, I'd like to publicly note that I have decided to go sans-beta on this one (long story). So despite my best efforts, there is a very good chance that errors escaped my notice – from the grammatical to the historical and literally anything in between. I've done my best to catch and correct as much as I can, and even now I'm still in the process of combing through everything for the umpteenth time, but I am merely mortal – and an undeniably fallible one at that. Should you run into a mistake or if you happen upon something you don't like, don't forget that there is a human being on the other side of this screen.

TL;DR: I'm nervous and feeling incredibly vulnerable right now. I hope you like what I've made. And above all: please remember that – contrary to popular belief – it is possible to be honest and compassionate at the same time.

ETERNAL NIGHT

"Thee I revisit now with bolder wing
Escaped the Stygian Pool, though long detained
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
Through utter and through middle darkness borne
With other notes then to the Orphean Lyre
I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night,
Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to reascend…"

John Milton, Paradise Lost

Part I – Hunted

"I ask Persephone, 'How could you grow to love him? He took you from flowers to a kingdom where not a single living thing can grow.' Persephone smiled, 'My darling, every flower on your earth withers. What Hades gave me was a crown made for the immortal flowers in my bones.'"
– Nikita Gill, Conversations with Persephone

February 1763
The Doge's Palace
Venice, Italy

"I am always amazed at how many additional guests they manage to invite with each new season," Antón Bernardini remarked, glancing over at his friend after a brief scan of the crowd. "Is it my imagination, or are there even more persons in attendance than last year?"

"Invite?" his companion echoed with a twist of irony. "I'd wager that at least a third never even received a formal solicitation." The man's bright blue eyes briefly scrutinized the multitude, a single dark brow arching behind his mask barely noticeable. "The lack of breeding alone…"

His comment faded into an after-thought as a stunning redhead in an exquisitely tailored lilac gown passed by. Her décolletage was iced with a gaudy choker necklace that twinkled in the lamplight. The sparkle brought his eyes immediately to the generous swell of her breasts – an obvious ploy – the coy female simpering as she passed by, clearly having noted his attention. But for all her beauty and all that perfume she had evidently bathed herself in, little could mask the stench of a recent debauched encounter – with two separate individuals, if his nose was correct.

It usually was.

When she was out of range, Count Vladislaus Drăculea looked to his friend with an amused grin.

"Where on earth do you suppose they find these people?"

Antón dared a peek at the siren in purple, biting back a laugh.

"And in last year's fashions no less."

The Count coughed once in order to conceal a chuckle of his own.

Their conversation on the surface possessed a kind of snobbery often excused as fashionable for the higher-ranking class, yet there was an exchange of knowing glances and sly smirks that hinted more toward amusement than genuine disapproval.

"How will we ever survive?" Vladislaus teased, adjusting his mask, its appropriation ensuring him anonymity for the evening. "Rubbing elbows with these unwashed, ill-bred cretins. I'd rather feed on sewer rats."

His friend laughed openly that time as he ascended the stairs.

"No you would not!"

Antón was the first to reach the top steps of the Doge's Palace, extending his hand to meet the offered assistance of his wife, Mariella, who had been waiting patiently for him to join her.

"You two are incorrigible," she called out, a playful lilt in her chastisement as she took her husband's arm. When the Count joined them, the pair effortlessly fell into step beside him as they entered the courtyard. "I fear you may be correct, though," Mariella added after a moment of silence as they navigated their way through the crowd. "I don't recall there being so many guests in the years past – at least in my limited experience."

"A price one must pay for a moment's reprieve, I suppose," Bernardini said with a beleaguered sigh, stealing a knowing look at the Count. "Perhaps we should start considering a change of scene for our annual retreat?"

"We've attended carnival for over two hundred and fifty years," Vladislaus reminded him. "It is tradition, and I have no intention of changing that now."

"I can sympathize with your need to temporarily relinquish the mantle of responsibility in exchange for some respite," Mariella interjected gently. "But truly… a masquerade ball? Isn't that a bit on the nose? And don't you find it unwise to risk the safety of yourself and, through you, your people all for a fortnight of revelry and debauches when you could easily enjoy those much more safely in some other city?"

Dracula smiled, but said nothing as the woman's husband tenderly attempted to hush her.

"Dolcezza, leave the man alone."

"No, no… she speaks her mind, Antón," Vladislaus interrupted calmly. "I suppose dedicating the last two and a half centuries to attending the same masquerade ball year after year, and so close to my enemy, just so I can abandon the name of Dracul and all of the burdens it holds for a fortnight is clearly asking too much."

"I'm sure she did not mean…"

"After all," he continued, the bite in his otherwise languid tone becoming more prevalent, "it's not like we come to the birth-place of our friendship each winter without taking the necessary precautions. But perhaps we should just forgo these trips of ours altogether. I mean, with the Knights of the Holy Order being a constant thorn in my side, not to mention the growing tensions with the lycans, and," he paused to laugh sardonically, "let's not forget the dissenting factions among our own kind. The Swedes, that troublesome nest in Spain, and as if one war with the Turks in my lifetime wasn't enough…"

Before he could continue further in his irritation, Mariella, realizing she had upset their sovereign, halted abruptly. Her eyes fell for just a moment before searching for the Count's when the man finally paused to look back at them, wondering why the couple had stopped.

"Forgive me, sir, for my unbridled tongue," she said with genuine penitence, bowing her head to him in a sign of submission. "I should not have questioned you. I know that you allow my husband to speak so freely with you, but I should not have assumed that same privilege. It was wrong of me and I apologize."

Although Count Dracula had come a long way in the last two and a half centuries, thanks to the influence and continued counsel of his friend and fledgling, he was by no means a saint. His reputation of being the son of the devil had naturally expanded beyond its metaphorical connotation, an inherent side effect of his choice to abandon God and any hope of salvation for the immortality and virtually unchecked power he now enjoyed. Though he could prove ruthless in his retaliation when crossed, the Count respected his closest friend far too much to hold any ill-will toward his bold and recently blood-bound wife.

The truth of it was, Mariella was unlike any other woman Vladislaus had ever met. While there was no real attraction between them, he could on some level comprehend why his friend had become so taken with the female. She was a rarity, even with her nation of origin and lack of rank – full of opinions and self-assuredness. Deep down he understood that even with her uncanny ability to question everything, she meant no real harm.

And so with an oft practiced exertion of will, Dracula allowed his irritation to depart as he extended his hand to the lady as a sign of his good faith. The cream of her silk glove was a stark contrast to the natural dark hue of her flesh. She had long since evolved beyond the need for blushing, but he could still feel the heat of her skin as he kissed her hand before squeezing it gently in assurance.

"There is nothing to forgive," he insisted. "I know your motive for candor is not one of maliciousness."

With the tension dispelled, they fell into step once again.

You and your weakness for strong, opinionated women, Dracula's voice teased in Bernardini's mind. The man rolled his eyes behind his mask.

Something I clearly have inherited from you and that pesky sire bond, he mocked back, his cheekiness causing a faint smile to curl the Count's lips.

At least the women I take to my bed know who is in command.

Says the man who can't commit to save his soul. Honestly, when was the last time you stayed with the same woman for more than a month?

You already know my feelings on the subject. We are not having this conversation again.

I still think you'd sing a different tune if you found a woman who could challenge you.

Or keep pace?

You expect too much of people, Vladislaus.

Perhaps, but isn't that just the curse of immortality – with every year that passes, my expectations for a suitable partner and mate become even more unattainably high.

Of course. Blame it on the immortality. You and I both know these are just walls you use to protect yourself. You're afraid of the vulnerability.

Before the Count could retort with his usual denial, Bernardini spoke up so his wife could be included in the dialogue, the sound of music and conversation filling the night air as they moved along the outer balcony of the palace, facing the Grand Canal.

"I wonder if this will be the year the floor collapses beneath us and we all go tumbling into the water," he announced rather abruptly.

Mariella, grateful to be included in the conversation, smiled while playfully patting his arm in rebuke.

"You mustn't say such things, caro. You'll jinx it."

"There's no need to adopt his concern," Dracula assured her. "Nearly every season we've attended has been met with no such tragedy. Your husband merely has a flair for the dramatic."

"Naturally!" Bernardini exclaimed. "Drama is what makes the mundane of eternity far more interesting."

"My reservations for a masquerade aside, I still don't understand why the two of you insist on this silly tradition of yours after all these years," Mariella continued before quickly tacking on, "I mean, being so close to Rome at a time like this. I just… it doesn't feel safe."

"The Knights of the Holy Order have no business in Venice – so long as our kind continue to stay hidden in the shadows. Our defenses against the hunters have remained sure these last few years at least," Dracula explained with confidence. "We may not be wholly out of danger, but we are safer than we have ever been."

"He is right, cara. And our people owe him a great deal for that," Bernardini agreed.

"I do this just as much for myself as I do it for them" Dracula insisted, though he made no effort to contradict his friend's assertion. "Our kind has a right to existence as much as the mortals do."

"Even if our existence defies the very laws of nature," Bernardini stated with a wry grin from behind his mask. "If only the Church shared your sentiments."

"None of us will ever taste of heaven nor hell when true death is met. I don't see why our existence is any of their business in the first place."

"I suppose it threatens their ideology," Mariella explained. "My own people have struggled against the Vatican for centuries, accused of being devil-worshippers and other such nonsense."

"Yes, but some of your sisters do have an affinity for darker magic," her husband noted.

"Only when they break from the covenant and isolate themselves. Only then does the power corrupt them. There is strength and safety in being a part of a community and it is hubris that taints the soul. No witch is inherently evil. If Rome had allowed us to heal our own as we have done for centuries, the atrocities of Salem, Essex, and Pendle never would have taken place. Man has a history of fearing what they do not understand."

"Which is why enlightenment continues to elude them," Dracula agreed.

"I'm fairly certain we are the only ones living in literal darkness, though," Bernardini noted with mirth.

"I can't argue with that. But enough philosophy. We can discuss politics and the threat of Rome any other time of year. Right now, all I want to do is find myself a dancing partner," the Count announced as they entered the grand ballroom and the trio scanned the crowd briefly, taking in the sight of the revelers.

There were many already dancing, while the remaining guests all flanked the perimeter, engaged in lively discussion.

"Then we'll leave you to it," Bernardini stated with a short bow.

"Happy hunting!" the woman teased and then the couple departed, disappearing into the crowd.

With his companions gone, Vladislaus permitted himself a moment of absolute stillness. He closed his eyes briefly, breathing in deep of the useless air as he took in the myriad of scents – the water of the canal just outside, the faint hint of sweat and flesh, perfume, wine, the floral arrangements near the windows, burning wicks and melted wax of the candles… and blood?

The familiar metallic fragrance sent a delicious shiver through his body, curling along his spine and down to his toes as an irreversible chemical reaction was set off beneath his skin. He could feel the tips of his canines lengthen ever so slightly as a hint of euphoria made his whole person feel lighter. His eyes opened, irises undoubtedly brighter in color, as that's what often happened when the hunger came over him. But as he had so many times before, he reined himself in with utter mastery – a single deep breath and he was himself again, though notably more alert.

Eager to know where that whiff of blood was coming from, he made his way about the ballroom, frosty blue eyes scanning the crowd with subtlety as his mask and will kept him unnoticed by those in attendance. With the keen attention of a well-seasoned hunter, he attuned his ears to the heartbeats in the room instead of the steady rhythm of the music, dismissing the background noise of chatter and laughter, searching… searching… until at last he found it.

A soft, male groan of distress lightly laced with pleasure, paired with a muffled feminine sigh of delight.

Dracula's gaze moved with the exactness of a razor, looking past the lavishly dressed guests until he caught sight of a man and woman hidden away in a shadowy corner of the room near a large window, roughly twenty paces from where he presently stood. The nook in which the pair resided was well chosen. The flowing curtains and enormous floral arrangement, along with the general lack of sufficient lighting, provided just enough concealment from prying eyes. From his vantage point, the entangled couple appeared to be in nothing more than an amorous embrace, but Dracula knew better.

As he drew nearer, he kept more and more to the shadows, willing himself unseen as he took his steps carefully. At first glance, it appeared that a man donning a bauta costume had a young woman in an indigo colored gown enveloped in his arms – cornered, helpless against his amorous attentions. Initially, Dracula assumed he had happened upon a male vampire feeding off of an unsuspecting female, but upon closer inspection, he discovered that it was in fact the woman, not the man, who was the predator.

Though the lady was pinned to the wall, it was clear that she was the one in control, her hands holding firmly to the front of his mantle, her face buried in the crook of his neck. The barely discernable slurping sound confirmed his suspicions and the Count watched in private fascination as the woman fed freely, seemingly ignorant of his presence. When she had taken her fill, Vladislaus watched as she pulled back her head of dark mahogany brown hair, rich crimson painting full and breathless lips, eyes glowing violet behind a gold colombina mask.

Something about the way she licked her lips clean unexpectedly drew her spectator in as she inhaled deep to calm her bloodlust, the pale flesh of her bosom rising and falling in a way that made the sapphire and diamond scoop necklace around her throat sparkle and glisten as it caught the candlelight. When she had pacified her inner demon, Dracula watched as her eyes returned to their normal state – a deep and penetrating blue – and the woman smiled at the dazed man still in her arms.

Whispering something to her captive, she leaned in close, seemingly oblivious of her audience as she passionately kissed her meal in gratitude before letting him go. The human made his way to the nearest chair like a mindless slave, eyes glossed over in a state of absentmindedness as he slumped down in the seat he had been instructed to take. Then he leaned his head back against the wall and slipped into unconsciousness as if by command.

Dracula could feel the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement at the scene he had just witnessed, the finesse of the lady and the way in which she had fed from and dismissed her prey without catching the attention of a single reveler – an inspiring spectacle. She had the technique of one who had lived for centuries, and yet he could sense that though a vampire, she was still young – having been undead for maybe two or three decades at most.

Whomever her sire had been, they had taught her well.

Dracula couldn't recall the last time he had been so genuinely impressed – and the sensation wasn't at all as unpleasant as he had expected.

Continuing to linger in the shadows of the room, he watched the mystery woman as she rejoined the party, effortlessly inserting herself into a conversation of strangers before eventually being asked to dance by one of the men.

As she was led out onto the dance floor, Dracula could not seem to tear his eyes away. While he had seen his share of beauties throughout his many years of living, in that moment, Vladislaus could not recall a single instant in which he had happened upon a female with so much promise. Not only was she a skilled huntress, she held herself with a poise and confidence befitting of royalty – perhaps not a queen in her present state, but the potential was irrefutable.

A pity her current partner could not match her grace on the dance floor, he mused silently, an openly smug grin overtaking his features. The nameless female humored the poor soul with equanimity, but Vladislaus could tell she was rapidly growing weary of having her toes stepped on.

Eager for a chance to interact with this effortlessly captivating creature, the instant the dance ended he was on the move, gliding between guests with ease.

"Shall we have another?" her current partner inquired hopefully. "I think the next one shouldn't be so complicated."

Before she could answer, Dracula had reached them, exuding masculine grace and self-possession as he caught the lady's eye.

"Forgive me for intruding," he began with an incline of his head as he bowed in her direction, "but may I be so bold as to request the next with you?"

"Excuse me, sir, but I believe that privilege is mine," the man interrupted, chest puffed out and cloak pushed back dramatically as if he were some sort of fowl putting himself on display. "You will have to wait your turn."

Dracula was barely even phased by the man's possessive exhibition. If anything, it amused him, and in a moment of pure mischievousness, he decided to provoke the male further by ignoring him entirely. With the extension of his hand, he offered himself to the young woman, holding her gaze.

She studied his upturned palm for a beat before answering with noted care,

"I fear you are too late." A subtle playfulness sparkled in her eyes. "This gentleman here asked me for the next just moments before your arrival, and I do believe the right is his."

"Perhaps it would be, but then you never gave him an answer."

Though most of her face was covered behind her mask, he could almost sense the arching of a single brow when she smiled.

"I suppose that's true."

"And while I'm sure the young man is amusing enough, a woman of your caliber deserves a far more worthy partner."

"This is an outrage!" the man exclaimed, affronted, but still Dracula continued to hold his hand out to the woman, his posture full of confidence; yet all the while a small part of him wondered if she would indeed refuse him.

"Such self-assurance! Tell me, good sir – do you believe yourself to be such a man?" she asked him, ignoring the insulted huffing and puffing of the reveler still at her side.

Accepting her invitation for proof, he took a bold step toward her, crowding out her previous dance partner as he looked directly into her eyes, his nearness to her creating a level of intimacy that Vladislaus so dearly wanted to explore further.

"I think you will find that I excel in all areas of social intercourse. And if that is of little import, allow me to at least assure you that your toes will be spared any further abuse, so long as they are in my care."

The man at their side continued in his disapproval, but his protestations fell on deaf ears. The woman's playful smile deepened and Dracula knew he had won before her hand ever slipped into his.

"Then lead the way," she said in suggestive tones, and with a confident air the Count led her away from her previous and now dejected companion who eventually sulked off into a corner to nurse his wounded pride.

Then the music started and the dance began.

True to his word, Dracula proved an excellent dancer, his movements precise and effortless and the young woman before him, who in the last dance had to guide her partner about, was free to enjoy the simple pleasure of being led.

"So tell me, does this beauty before me have a name, or are we doomed to the anonymity of the evening?" he inquired.

"I fear you are to live forever in wonder," she said with laughter in her voice. "And please – for the sake of us both, put an end to your flattery. You may have won a dance with me, sir, but nothing more than a dance."

"Of course – forgive me if my compliments have offended you."

"They have not offended me."

"Then why the request for their demise?"

"Flattery bores me. Most commendations are insincere and the rest are usually offered as a means to manipulate the subject, and I will not be beguiled."

"So defensive!" he proclaimed, not in the least discouraged by her answer.

"I know your type," was her quick riposte.

"And presumptive, too! How would you know my type – if indeed there is such a thing – if you do not even know the man behind the mask?" Dracula countered, watching her closely.

"It was your argument when you were trying to persuade me to dance with you."

"I'm not entirely certain trying is the correct verb, as I was clearly successful," he pointed out archly and he watched with satisfaction as her smile moved up into her eyes.

"Regardless, your first assertion had nothing to do with me or my well-being. It was all about you and your supposed prowess."

The next step in the dance brought them closer together and Dracula took the opportunity to coil his arm around her waist, pulling her toward him.

"I assure you, I am not a collection of idle promises and hot air," he said in low tones so only she would hear.

Her cheeks were covered by her mask, but the blood of her recent feeding allowed the faintest hint of warmth to radiate from her eternally preserved figure. He sensed the change in her immediately. Perhaps she was not unaffected by him as she liked to pretend? It made him feel devious.

"Then why all this effort to subdue me?" she asked him. "I hate to be a disappointment, but I don't surrender easily and if it's an easy conquest that you're looking for..."

"I'm not looking to conquer you," he promised gently. "I only wanted to dance with you."

Though it was clear she did not entirely believe him – he wasn't even sure he believed the words himself now that he considered them – but her expression softened as the next steps had her walking around him slowly. She ran her hand across his chest, the faint brushing of fingers along the breadth sending the faintest of shivers down his spine before she leaned in. The brush of her lips against the lobe of his ear was unexpected and left his breath to catch. She whispered from behind,

"You're a terrible liar."

The tone she used would have sent his heart to pound like a war drum had it not stopped beating centuries ago.

"Am I?"

"A dreadful one," she flirted, hand running across his back now, shoulder to shoulder. The touch was light and it sent another shiver to coil down his spine, straight into his cock. "I know what you are," she then whispered before turning gracefully, taking the offered hand of one of the neighboring dancers as they momentarily switched partners. While she briefly danced with another, her eyes remained on the Count, eager to catch his reaction.

His expression, despite the mildly obstructed view provided by his mask, appeared to please her, for when she returned to the Count's arms as the dance continued, she smiled triumphantly up at him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Vladislaus insisted half-heartedly. Despite his assertion, however, he could not help but wonder how she knew. Did she also know who he was? And if so – how?

"Now, now… don't feign ignorance. After all, the evidence is transparent," and she placed her hand on his chest as they turned in time together. "You have no heartbeat."

Her fearless nature and flirtatious eyes only served to draw him in like the moon to the tide and Dracula made no effort to resist her pull.

In fact, to return her cheek, he took one of his fingers and ran the tip over her collarbone before letting it slip down a little, past the jewels of her necklace so it rested between her breasts at the upper part of her cleavage line. It was audacious to be sure, a move that any other woman bred for high society would have rejected immediately, but when she didn't slap his hand away, he let the digit linger there for a moment longer.

Her skin was soft – silky and unblemished.

He couldn't help but wonder if she tasted as lovely as she felt.

"Neither do you," he pointed out, finally pulling his attention away from her bosom and back up to her eyes.

"I hope my little moment of indulgence hasn't crossed any lines. I know you city-dwellers can be extremely territorial," she continued with feigned innocence as she spun around, the dance continuing.

Ah. So she had noticed him watching after all.

"Like you, I am no native to these lands."

"I knew you were too handsome to be Italian."

Count Dracula laughed openly, her ability to illicit such a response from him only heightening her appeal. The song finally ended, but he was by no means ready to depart her company.

"Who's flattering who, now?" he teased, taking her hand and bowing over it in gratitude as she curtsied before him.

"Just returning the favor. Besides, you allowed me to finish my business without interruption, which is sadly not what most of our kind tend to do. I can't begin to tell you how frustrating it has been struggling to navigate a new city with all of this territorial nonsense; trying to maintain my privacy, while establishing some semblance of control over a new environment..."

He smiled, finding her frankness refreshing.

"I understand completely," he said. That seemed to appease her.

"Well, thank you, sir, for the dance – and for keeping your promise in offering my poor toes a reprieve."

"It was my pleasure."

And with a charming smile and another curtsy she turned to leave.

Dracula would have let her go, but something made him hold fast to her hand before she could remove it from his grasp. She turned to look back at him, expression full of question, but when he gently pulled her back into his arms, she seemed to comprehend his intentions.

"Might I speak plainly?"

"If you feel you must."

"I have been terribly bored since my arrival here in Venice and you are, without a doubt, the most captivating creature that I've happened upon. I would like to linger in your company for a little longer."

He wasn't asking for permission, and the look in her eyes told him she had noted that.

"I'm flattered, but have you no friends or companions to entertain you?"

"None as beautiful or clever as you."

There was that look again – the archness, the fire.

"Again with the flattery."

"No flattery here. I merely speak the truth."

He watched with baited breath as she considered for just a moment before he felt her relax in his hold, relenting.

"Very well, I accept. But I'll only dance another with you if you promise me one thing."

He nodded his consent.

"I need a name to call you by," she continued. "In the spirit of the carnival, it naturally won't be your given name. But I am weary of the constant formality and I am convinced that the best way to get to know a person is to strip all of that away. What say you?"

He'd never admit it aloud, but the way she said the word strip left something to twist delightfully in his pelvis. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a half-smile.

"I could not agree more."

"Excellent! Then for the remainder of our time together, I shall call you Agis." Dracula repeated the name, confused by her choice, even as the orchestra began to play and the next dance began. "Are you not familiar with the work of the playwright, Pierre de Marivaux?"

Dracula shook his head.

"I fear I'm not as well-versed in the Parisian arts as I would like to be."

"A great pity!" the young woman exclaimed with a laugh. "You are missing out, Agis."

"And what am I to call you?" the Count then asked, amused by this light tête-à-tête that had developed between them.

"You may call me Léonide, though naturally that is not my true name."

"And who are Agis and Léonide?"

"Characters in a play I saw when I was three-and-twenty. An unpleasant chapter in my life, but my brother and cousin managed to rescue me for a weekend and that performance marked one of the happier evenings I had had in quite some time."

The playfulness in the young woman's expression dimmed noticeably as they continued to dance, the unknown memory consequently dulling the spark in her eyes that he had grown so fond of.

"You're troubled."

"No, Agis – just a little battle worn. Some wounds never fully heal, I suppose… no matter how much time passes by."

"You don't strike me as the soldiering type."

She laughed ruefully, her eyes suddenly seeming much older than they had a moment ago. He recognized that weariness almost immediately. It had been plaguing him for the better part of his existence.

"Not all battles are fought with steel and gunpowder. But you are only a man. I suppose it would be unfair of me to expect you to have a proper understanding of such things."

The smile she wore suggested that she was merely teasing him, but there was something in the tone of her voice that spoke of a truth whose bitterness he could not account for.

"Only a man?" he clarified.

"But of course. The patriarchal order of our society grants you a very finite perspective, a view which blinds you to a reality oft ignored."

"And what reality might that be?"

"You and I may be strangers of different sexes and nationalities, but we are of the same stock. Each of us were created on our own respective battlefields," and her gaze grew more pointed, as if she was silently urging him to peel back the layers of her words to find the meaning.

He usually didn't care much for riddles, but right now seemed to be proving an exception.

On the surface, he assumed that the battlefield she referenced must have been the one each vampire met – a choice between death and life eternal – but there was so much more she was saying with her eyes alone that he found himself suddenly moved.

"How can you presume to know what battles I have fought, the demons I face?" he inquired in lower tones so they would not be overheard.

At this part of the dance, he lifted her up into the air, hands holding firmly to her waist, but as he lowered her, he did so slowly, lost in her gaze as her feminine form brushed against his front. He had never beheld eyes quite like hers – irises like masterfully cut sapphires, oceanic in their complexity and color, the pull of her gaze dragging him further down into her shadowed depths.

"I could see it the moment I looked into your eyes," she answered.

"I was not aware such things could be seen."

"You are nosferatu, Agis," she whispered, hand resting beside his neck as they turned slowly, facing one another. "As am I. Therefore, there is no need for either of us to be coy," and that flirtatious smile of hers returned. "Come. I will give you a glimpse behind the mask – I know you want to look."

She twirled once beneath his hand before he led her back to him, his arm around her waist as he stared deep into her eyes.

Dracula had long believed the poet's words clichéd – the eyes are the windows to the soul. And yet, here he was, allowing his demon to behold just a glimpse of her own, a swirl of darkened mist forming images behind the glass of slightly dilated pupils. What he saw there he could not even begin to fathom, for there was little context provided. But what he beheld were emotional scars he recognized all too well:

Loss.

Betrayal.

Loneliness.

Heartbreak.

And pain. A pain so profound, so vast in its scope – and yet she carried it so well, so effortlessly. It astonished him, moved him even. She was so young, and yet, to have suffered so much. This woman was no ordinary female. She had warrior blood in her, the strength of a survivor, the soul of a monarch, such untapped power and natural authority he had never witnessed in another person before and it only served to deepen his curiosity.

Léonide – whoever she was – was no ordinary vampire.

There was something hidden in the nadirs of her soul, slumbering beneath the surface… something the darker part of his own soul recognized and called out for, though he could not articulate what precisely it was.

Mine, his demon seemed to rumble quietly from the shadows of his brain. But before he could pursue the thought, their gaze broke at last as the dance continued and they were separated for a time. When she was facing him again, her guard had returned with her.

"What are you?" he inquired.

She smiled.

"Only a woman."

Ignoring her teasing, he persisted.

"Who is your master?"

"I have no master."

"Your maker then. Who sired you?"

Léonide's smile broadened as she leaned in close so she could whisper into his ear, those soft lips brushing tantalizingly against the lobe again as if she knew what the faint touch did to him.

"The devil."

For the briefest of moments, Dracula feared that she was referring to him as the son of the devil, but her expression betrayed no such familiarity, which permitted him a gracious moment of relief. He dared to smile.

"Does your devil have a name?"

"But of course he does, though I may choose not to give it to you."

"Why ever not?"

"Because I know the game you're playing, Agis," the young lady pointed out, wagging her finger at him in chastisement, "and I refuse to make it easy for you."

Dracula could do little more than chuckle away the tension that had begun to settle in this chest, but his curiosity had already been piqued.

For the remainder of this dance and the two that followed, they opted for the exploration of less intense subjects. They flirted and talked unceasingly about the usual trivialities – theater, art, music, what books they had read recently. From what he could gather, "Léonide" was an educated and richly cultured woman, with well-informed opinions and an understanding of the world that continued to surprise him. She hailed from France, though it was clear she had not lived there for some time as her accent had greatly diminished; and while she would not confirm nor deny anything, he had a suspicion that previous to her becoming one of the undead, she had once been counted among French nobility.

However, that was all he could get out of her.

The woman was warm and playful, yet Vladislaus could sense that even with the intimacy already starting to bud and bloom between them, she was continuing to hold him at a safe distance. He could appreciate her sense of discretion, but the less she told him the more he wanted to know.

By the end of their fourth dance, it was clear that something was developing between them – a kind of intense attraction that went far beyond the purely physical. It was something the Count had never experienced before, at least this quickly, and despite his lack of understanding as to why he felt thus, he was incapable of denying his feelings.

He was drawn to her in a way that was new and frightening, effortless and pleasing.

She felt more like an equal than the usual inferior diversions he was accustomed to, and as they bowed at the conclusion of their menuet, applauding the musicians with the rest of the dancers, Dracula and the mysterious Léonide continued to face one another, eyes locked. The Count knew that having danced four dances in a row with the same partner would send the wrong impression to the other guests, but in that moment he could not bear the thought of dancing with anyone but the woman before him.

They had only been in one another's company for a relatively short time, yet it seemed in that instant like he had known her all his life. The sentiment, of course, was preposterous; he understood this. Yet, before she could withdraw, he had instinctually reached out for her hand once again, unwilling to let her go.

The young woman smiled from behind her mask.

"My dear Agis, you have already danced the last four with me. Surely there must be another lady you'd wish to dance with."

But Dracula only continued to hold her gloved hand in his.

"There is no other lady that I would rather dance with," he said. He knew the words sounded very much like the kind of line he would have used to seduce a conquest, but he found that when he uttered them, they were spoken with complete and very uncharacteristic sincerity.

It was true – he had no desire to dance with anyone else, to talk with anyone else, to be this close to anyone else. He couldn't for the life of him understand why. Was it the mystery surrounding this Léonide? Perhaps he had merely been starved for good company more than he had realized? Or maybe it was something more?

He couldn't be sure, but the expression she offered him, even behind her mask, was clearly one of hesitation. He was certain that she too had enjoyed his company, and yet she seemed to doubt his earnestness to some degree – or perhaps it frightened her a little. He couldn't quite tell and the intrigue only served to pull him in further still.

"I'm honored, but I don't understand…" she began to say, but then he was pulling her a little closer to him and into position for the next number.

"There's something about you…" was all he offered by way of explanation, and once the music started and they began to dance an allemande, all conversation ceased.

It was a lively number, full of turns and entwined arms, but unlike the dances before, Dracula and his partner were silent. Every turn was full of stolen glances, every moment of closeness seeming longer than it was, and yet never long enough. With a brush of her hand against his face or along the breadth of his chest, he felt his very breath stolen from him, a profound longing settling deep within the very recesses of a soul he had so often denied having.

Little did he know that each touch of his own was having a similar effect on his partner.

She never said as much, but by the time the dance started to draw to a close it was clear – the attraction he was feeling was not at all one-sided. She felt it too, that inexplicable pull, as bewildering as it was. The dance ended with his arm around her waist, her breasts brushing against his chest as the ballroom had grown crowded.

While the revelers all applauded another fine number, Dracula looked into the eyes of his dance partner, committing to memory the way she fearlessly held his gaze, pupils dilated, eyes lidded with thinly veiled desire. He took her chin in his hand and would have gone in for a kiss when a neighboring couple bumped into them, shattering the spell. Dracula turned to chastise the careless man at his right with a searing warning look, but when he returned his attention back to Léonide, she had slipped out of his hold. She was now vanishing into the sea of guests surrounding him.

"Wait!" he called out, reaching out with his hand as if doing so would make her stop, but she only continued to retreat, even as the room began to move once again, everyone starting to dance. Dracula struggled to free himself from the mob, desperately keeping his eyes on the lithe figure in dark violet-blue weaving masterfully through the crowd, but with every couple he bumped into, he momentarily would lose his focus and soon he had lost her altogether.

He called out the false name she had given him in hopes that maybe she'd turn her head and he'd catch sight of her, but it was to no avail. By the time he reached the edge of the room, she was gone. After scanning the ballroom once to check if she had doubled back, he exited out into the hall to see if he could find her there.

He removed his cumbersome mask so he could see better, though he wore a smaller one of thin black fabric to keep his identity concealed.

The Count then proceeded to scour the corridor for any sign of her as a sudden swell of desperation tightened in his chest. His search led him out onto the loggia overlooking the courtyard. Defeat began to set in as he surveyed the carnival guests in the square with growing disappointment. Even with his astute skills of determining who was mortal and who was nosferatu, he could not locate her, and after a good fifteen minutes of searching the crowd, the Count yielded.

The woman – whoever she was – was gone…. and he didn't even know her name.

Ready to curse his misfortune, Vladislaus exhaled heavily as he wandered along an empty cobbled street which ran along the Grand Canal, the light of the moon glistening on the water. The sight of the night sky had always offered him respite in the past, the stars his most stalwart of companions; but in that moment, he became acutely aware of a kind of emptiness inside of him that he had not known until this night. Despite this curse of immortality, he had never felt particularly alone, never desiring the sort of intimate companionship his friend Bernardini enjoyed with Mariella.

Yet, he did so now, and he found he did not care at all for the sensation.

Before he could mourn this sudden bout of loneliness, he felt a change in the air around him, the presence of another located somewhere behind, hidden in the shadows. Curious, he made a move to turn around when the streetlamp a few yards away went out abruptly. His attention diverted, turning to see who or what had extinguished the flame, but then a hand reached out from the obscure black on the edge of the piazza.

It grabbed hold of him and without explanation, he was pulled into the secluded darkness of a little garden alcove.

Though a creature of the night, Dracula's eyes were barely given the chance to adjust when he felt the hands of a woman taking his partially-masked face in hers. He recognized her immediately as the mysterious "Léonide" who had only vanished just minutes earlier. Prepared to question her, determined to understand why she had left him so suddenly and without explanation, why she was here now in the darkness with him, the Count was abruptly rendered incapable of speech.

The woman had fearlessly pulled his face down towards her own and then she kissed him.

Not hard or out of desperation – but she held her lips there, one gentle brush of timidity before finding her inner confidence and she pressed a little more firmly as if some part of her had decided that this was indeed what she had wanted.

Meanwhile, the man had been left temporarily stunned.

Count Dracula had met his fair share of forward women and his experience with that level of impudence, especially from strangers, usually coincided with wanton and undignified females who had little to no notion of boundaries, decency, or verbal consent. But the lady kissing him now had no sense of degradation about her, and while she kissed him with the experience of a wanton, she did not taste strictly of lust. There was a longing in her kiss that confused him, and yet it seemed to appeal to his own sense of unspoken yearning and in a matter of seconds he had adapted to the situation.

He coiled an arm around her waist so he could press her against him while his free hand rested beside her neck, fingertips lightly pressed against the nape, urging her closer.

She was still fully masked which made kissing her properly a bit of a struggle, but when he made an attempt to unveil her, she pulled her head back to stop him.

"No," she whispered, breathless, that faint and playful smile curving those tantalizing lips. "Don't spoil it." And then she leaned in and slanted her mouth over his once more. Then there was tongue and teeth and he felt a delicious shiver curl all the way down to the base of his spine.

"Spoil what?" he purred into the skin of her jaw before his mouth fell to her neck. The indistinct noise she made nearly crippled his sense of control, but then she was holding him closer, fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, a silent plea. As if he understood, he showered her throat in heady, open-mouthed kisses before lightly nipping the skin – just once, as if to test the waters. She made that delightful noise again. "This isn't some sort of game, is it? Because I should warn you Léonide, or whatever your name actually is… I am a very talented player."

The words were graveled and the rush of air that washed over her skin left her shivering once.

"Oh?"

Her voice was breathless, almost heady.

He worried the skin of her bare shoulder lightly and she shivered once more, whimpering her delight.

"Yes," he husked darkly, teasing her ear with his lips. "I always win."

His assertion seemed to resuscitate something within her and he felt the air around her shift almost imperceptibly.

"You've never played with me before," she whispered, sly fingers reaching into his cloak where they then traced the belt around his waist suggestively.

Brazen little minx.

The corner of his lip tugged upwards. He had had similar conversations about games and his proclivity to play dirty on occasion hundreds of times before, but this… this felt different.

"Perhaps we should rectify that?" he offered, kissing her deeply as if it strengthened his argument and he felt her lean into him, tongue stroking his in turn.

"I don't usually play those kind of games with strangers," she answered coyly, but the look she gave him suggested otherwise. His heavy-lidded eyes grew dark.

"I think it's safe to say that come the end, we won't be strangers anymore."

She chuckled, a rich hum of a sound behind gently pressed lips before she kissed him again, allowing him to wrap his arms more fully around her. He deepened the kiss further, tongue caressing the inside of her mouth with lazy, deft strokes, as if to demonstrate precisely what he was capable of doing elsewhere. Her knees wobbled a little and he had to bite back his smug grin.

She was good, but he was still better.

"We could always start with your real name," he proposed, resting his brow against the top of her mask as he stared at her lips, fingers tracing the delicate laces along the spine of her bodice.

"Does it matter?"

"I want to know you…" he said with unintended earnest, but before he could retract the words, she rewarded his honesty with another mind-numbing kiss.

"Then know me…" she said, taking his hand which had been lightly pawing one of her breasts and bringing it suddenly to her lips. He watched with unbridled delight as she took his index finger into her mouth, holding his gaze. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking on the digit even as her tongue massaged the underside of his finger.

The insinuation in her eyes wasn't lost to him. As consequence, his body's reaction proved instantaneous, a shuddering breath of pleasure escaping him as yet another shiver shot down his spine and straight into his now semi-erect cock. Then she lightly raked her teeth back up the digit slowly, eliciting a low growl to reverberate in his chest.

"Who are you?" he whispered, trying to focus on her eyes and not the sensation of her tongue sensuously running along the length of his finger.

But she refused to answer, rouge stained lips curved in an almost impish grin as she finally released the digit from her mouth before leaning in as if to kiss him again. Yet she refrained, so close that they shared breath.

"Give me a reason to tell you," she challenged.

He accepted and their lips collided once more, Vladislaus surrendering to the violent wave of passion that was rapidly consuming him, his sense of control weakening with every illicit sigh that escaped her.

"No more teasing…" he commanded in a lustful whisper. "Tell me who you are." When she wouldn't answer, his lips moved down to her neck again and he felt her respond immediately, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other feverishly gripping the front of his coat.

"I'm only a dream…" she said softly. "Just a shadow in the night."

Before Dracula could inquire further as to what her latest riddle meant, the hand that had been fisting his shirt suddenly grabbed the front of his face and in a maneuver too quick to stop, she snapped his neck, abruptly rendering him unconscious.

When the Count awoke some indiscernible amount of time later, it was on a chaise in the Doge's Palace. Evidently, Mariella and Bernardini had commandeered a private sitting room as they waited for their friend and master to rouse. It was Mariella who noticed his stirring first.

"At last, you're awake."

"What happened?" Dracula grumbled, rising from his position on the sofa while rubbing the lingering ache out of his freshly healed neck.

"You tell me," Bernardini said. "We found you outside the piazza unconscious."

"Was I alone?"

"As far as we could tell, yes. Although there was a carriage leaving just as we arrived."

Dracula jolted up to his feet as if he had been slapped.

"A carriage?"

"Yes."

"What did it look like?"

"I don't know. I wasn't really paying attention," and Bernardini looked to his wife who also shrugged.

"We were more worried about finding you with a broken neck in an alcove by the canal."

"Are you sure you don't remember anything about the carriage? Any defining characteristics? Maybe one of the people inside of it?"

"It was just your basic black coach – had perhaps three ladies in it. Why?" his friend inquired.

"I have to find her," the Count announced, and he turned to exit the room.

"Vladislaus, wait! Find who?" Bernardini called out.

The query brought Dracula to a sudden halt as he realized,

"I – I don't know. She never gave me her name; her real name anyway."

"Her real name? What name did she give you?" Mariella asked.

"It was a game. She called me Agis and then offered the name Léonide for herself."

Bernardini snorted back a laugh, which was instantly met with a hard look from the Count.

"Don't mock me, Antón."

"My apologies," the Italian replied, clearing his throat of any lingering amusement. "But I fear she's gone, old friend – whoever she was. Without a name or anything else to go off of, we have nothing that would aid in a proper search."

"But there must be something. Mariella – surely you can use your magic to…"

"I can only locate this woman if she left you with something that belongs to her."

"I have nothing. But can't you search my memories? Maybe pick up on a detail I may have missed?"

"My magic doesn't work like that, as you well know."

Bernardini leaned in closer to his wife as they watched their sovereign pace furiously by the door.

"I've never seen him like this," the Italian whispered to her and she nodded her head in understanding. Usually, even in times of great stress, Count Dracula remained the epitome of self-restraint, but the man before them seemed… not quite the same. "Vladislaus – stop pacing. You'll wear out the floor."

"There must be something we can do to track her," Dracula muttered to himself, continuing to stalk about the room as the wheels in his head turned furiously. "She's French aristocracy, but she's staying here in Italy. That much I know. That has to give us something to start with."

"France is on the brink of revolution. There could easily be hundreds of French aristocrats taking refuge here."

"But how many of them are vampires? It's a start!"

Bernardini addressed his king by name with a little more force and that seemed to snap the man out of his thoughts, forcing him to return to the present. The two friends exchanged a silent conversation of looks for nearly two whole minutes and just when Mariella had mustered the courage to interject, Dracula finally released the breath he had been holding in. That rush of air was dispelled heavily in what she could only describe as defeat – something the man rarely ever wore.

"I know," he stated, that tangible disappointment in his expression bringing the woman's brows nearly up to her hairline as she sent her husband a sidelong glance. Bernardini, however, didn't seem to share his wife's astonishment. They both watched as Vladislaus, meanwhile, returned to his seat by the fire, continuing, "If she wished to be contacted, she would have left me with the means to do so."

"Did she know who you were?"

"I don't believe so – but that still doesn't explain why she snapped my neck and ran."

"I'm amazed she was even able to do it in the first place," Mariella admitted.

"Women are odd creatures," Bernardini said with a wink at his wife who had risen from her seat to gather up the Count's discarded cloak on the floor.

"I have to find her," Vladislaus persisted.

"You don't have to do anything. She left with no indication of who she was or where she may have gone. Perhaps there's a reason," Antón was quick to counter.

"You don't understand…"

"My friend, I do understand. I have known you for almost three hundred years. Every woman who has wanted you to pursue her has left you with evidence of her desires. What has this Léonide offered you?"

Dracula's brows narrowed begrudgingly.

"Nothing," he answered with some difficulty, and while usually his friend's pragmatism tended to align with his own instincts, he couldn't shake the feeling that letting Léonide go was in fact a terrible idea. But why? Why did he care so much?

As if Antón had heard his sire's unspoken query, he said,

"I know that forgetting the first woman to have ever bested you – and with seemingly very little effort no less – will not be an easy task, but for the sake of your sanity, it may be the best thing to do for the present."

The two men proceeded to discuss the events of the evening, Bernardini continuing to talk his sovereign down and out of doing something rash, but Mariella, meanwhile, had remained notably mute. She still had Dracula's cloak gathered up in her arms, but she had slipped into some remote corner of the room to investigate something she had discovered upon the mantle.

A single hair, the color of mahogany.

She took two fingers and went to gather up the strand, but with that touch came an abrupt onslaught of images that flashed vividly before her mind's eye – a world very different from the one in which they currently lived:

Cities of machine and smoke.

A great dragon falling from the sky, pursued by a spreading shadow.

An insurgent alliance led by a brother and sister flanked by an army of thousands – vampire, werewolf, and human alike.

A white-eyed vampire with hair of fire.

A woman with eyes of violet and pitch, covered in blood, circled by four ravens until they vanished into mist as her very being began to emanate vast and blinding streams of light – brighter than the sun, brighter than starfire. On her head was a crown of rubies and obsidian glass, and as she slowly stretched out her arms as if to beckon the night, the moon above her took the form of a winged beast of fire and power – mighty and triumphant.

When the vision passed, the hair grasped between Mariella's two fingers shriveled up as though it had been held over an open flame.

She would never utter a word regarding the hair or the things she had seen upon holding it – but one thing was for certain.

Whomever this mystery woman was – the one that got away – it was no accident that her path had crossed Vladislaus' on this night. Something had been set in motion with their meeting, something that Mariella was determined to understand.

Hidden away in an old estate on the outskirts of Venice, three young women were seated on a large bed dressed only in their nightclothes. Though the sun was due to rise within the hour and the other residents were already retiring for the day in their private chambers, the trio continued uninterrupted in their conversation, exchanging excited whispers as though fearful the wrong ears might overhear their secrets.

"I still can't believe it! Lucia, you must be mistaken. There's no way that man was Count Dracula!"

"I'd know that profile anywhere," Lucia insisted. "Trust me, Alayna. I'm certain it was him at the carnival."

"But there's simply no way it could have been. I mean Count Dracula – the Count Dracula?"

"Is it so shocking that he'd take an interested in our Francesca?"

The one called Francesca remained silent as this dialogue persisted, though it was clear she was deeply amused by the excited exchange.

"That's not what I meant at all! I just… she got the better of him so easily."

"It's true," Francesca finally interjected. "We've all heard about his majesty's supposed reputation. The man I danced with this evening had moments where he could have lived up to the stories, but for all his charm he was almost too easy… so sincere and earnest."

"I can't believe my cousin is calling the Count Dracula an easy conquest," Alayna said with a laugh.

"If it even was him. We all know how Madame Ghilardi likes to exaggerate."

"I'm not exaggerating," Lucia insisted passionately. "You forget, I was his lover for a time – though admittedly it was a brief affair. But I'd know that man anywhere – mask or no mask."

"Well then, I am sorry to announce that Count Dracula is not nearly as impressive as the rumors or your accounts make him out to be."

Alayna shrugged.

"Maybe he was taken off-guard? It's been a while, I've heard, since he's had a proper challenge."

"I'm flattered you think I'm a proper challenge, cousin," Francesca replied.

"Challenge or not, playing games with the likes of Dracula was unbelievably brash of you. You really should be more careful. Even Satanas would agree with me," Lucia chided rather emphatically.

"Señor Meirás chose not to attend the masque with us, but if he had, I'm convinced he'd be quite proud of me for taking on Dracul… as unintentional as it may have been."

"I still find it strange how we didn't realize he was there until later in the evening – and he had been dancing with you for some time," Alayna wondered aloud. "I remember feeling a change in the room shortly after the allemande ended. Is he able to suppress his presence or something?"

"Yes, he can. It's easier for him to mingle with society when they don't know who he is – which is why he enjoys masquerades. He prefers the anonymity," Lucia explained.

"Makes sense to me." Alayna then glanced over at her cousin, who notably was choosing to remain silent on the matter as their mutual friend continued.

"When he exudes his full power, his complete strength, every one of the undead can feel his presence – it's an inherent ability of our kind, being able to sense the father of our race." But Lucia's explanation was cut short when Francesca snorted back a laugh. "What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry, but that's absolutely absurd," she scoffed. "Honestly, Lucia – his full power? You make him sound like a peacock on display – won't get noticed unless all the feathers are out."

"My description may be lacking in finesse worthy of the likes of you, Duchess, but this is no laughing matter. The power of the dragon is real. And whether or not you got the better of him tonight, it would be foolish indeed to mock him..."

"I'll mock him if I so choose! Besides – whether he's the master of our race or not, he's only a man."

"A man you owe your respect and allegiance to," Lucia insisted. "Whether your family chooses to associate with the court of Dracul or not – he is still our king."

Francesca rolled her eyes and declared, "No man is my king – and that includes the likes of Vladislaus Drăculea."

[EDIT] A/N: For the record, I am aware of when the French Revolution took place and that this chapter occurs roughly 30 years before Marie and Louis XVI were even executed. I've already sent this explanation to the few of you historical buffs who started to point out the time-gap (and I thank you once again for trying to be helpful), but allow me to provide the rest of you with some insight into the method of my madness: most historians will agree that when it came to the revolution, the writing was on the wall long before the abolishment of the monarchy or "Ancien Régime" actually took place in 1789. My thought process here is that Dracula & co. have been around for centuries - so surely they, too, would see that proverbial writing on the wall long before everyone else has. History is cyclical, after all.

But if that's still too much of a leap for you, oh well.

And to nip some of your suspicions in the bud now - the revolution mentioned in the summary of this story is not the French Revolution. Alas, this story is not a period piece (I've always had trouble "staying true" to historical accuracies and facts, anyway - can't you tell? I JUST WANT TO BEND THE THINGS, LET ME BEND THEM! lol), so the next chapter is going to see a massive time-jump.

If that doesn't sound like your cup of tea... well, thanks for stopping by, at least!

To the rest - I'll see you all in the next chapter.