Eternal Night (I) Chapter 21: Rivers of Blood, a van helsing fanfic

Many thanks to Scarlet Empress, She-Devil Red, and cneajna for the reviews over the weekend - and also for consistently reviewing every chapter every single week. Seriously - how did I get so lucky? I don't wish to be a broken record anymore than I usually am, but truly, your consistent engagement with this story and your enthusiasm and attention to detail and just overall support... it means so much. More than I will ever have words to express. So truly - thank you.

And to the rest of you who continue to read and occasionally pop-in: I still see and appreciate you guys, too! Any time I see a review from any of you in my inbox, it always proves to be a bright spot on my day :)

But enough of my emotional gushing. Let's get to the chapter!

CW: some blood/gore/violence, brief mention of past child abuse, and some pretty shameless flirting with questionable timing... but are we complaining? No.

Chapter 21
Rivers of Blood

Vivian.

He had heard the name a handful of times this morning, and only now was it starting to set off a familiar bell in Dracula's head as the two women continued to speak to one another. With the name came a face – then a memory.

Vivian… the youngest sister of Isabella and Tristan – werewolf royalty, but also the emissary who had visited him three decades ago, shortly after he had been cursed at Lilith's hand. She had come to discuss some of the contents of the treaty he had signed with Valerio, the then king of the werewolves, but he had dismissed her with great impatience and no empathy, too absorbed in his own suffering to even grant her a proper audience, let alone his full attention.

Another memory stirred.

One of the reports Baysia had given him – Vivian had returned to the palace as the condition of her kind had worsened under Dracula's absence and Augustine had imprisoned her unlawfully. The rumor was that she had declined his unwanted advances in exchange for favor and as punishment, he had had the council draft up absurd charges of treason against her, and when the wolves had threatened retaliation, he had used the princess' life to keep Isabella in check.

No wonder the woman had trust issues when it came to the vampires – even if they were friends.

The betrayal had undoubtedly been too deep.

Augustine had chosen his target well – a little too well.

It was clear – now that the ladies were much calmer with their differences out in the open – that Francesca would more than likely be able to procure her majesty's cooperation, but he wasn't certain how long that would actually take and the truth of it was they were running out of time. They needed to come to a resolution quickly and if there was one thing Dracula did even better than ruffling feathers, it was smoothing them.

He had been holding up the wall he was leaning against for too long. It was time to put his hands in things and he would start right here.

"It would be wise, your majesty, to heed Miss Chase's counsel," he called out.

The two women turned to face him, Frankie appearing rather shocked by his company, whereas Isabella looked affronted by it. In fact, the queen opened her mouth to berate him, but he held his hand up in an authoritative manner, motioning for her to remain silent. His insolence – if it could even be called that, considering who he truly was – left the most remarkable expressions on the women's faces.

"Please, allow me to finish," he insisted with poise, and he started to make his way over to the two of them.

"Who did you say this man was, Frankie?"

"I can speak for myself," Dracula assured her with noted confidence and he bowed at the waist before the werewolf queen. "My name is Vlad Leinhart; I am a close friend of Rémy's, and an… acquaintance of Miss Chase."

"But not her friend?" Isabella inquired with peculiar look between the two. He couldn't help the smile that curled his lips.

"No, alas. I fear Miss Chase and I are still struggling over a number of personal differences, but I'm sure, with time, we'll be able to resolve them. For now we're… oh, there's a quaint term I heard once many decades ago that I think captures it nicely – frenemies, I believe it was?" Frankie struggled not to react to his cheek as he continued. "But you must forgive my forthrightness, madam. I am in the habit of speaking candidly."

Isabella nodded her head in consent for him to continue and he placed his hands behind his back.

"Your majesty, your daughter has become the targeted prey of Marcus Augustine. I am certain you have heard of him."

It was a rhetorical question of course, but the queen offered a reply nonetheless.

"It's been hard to ignore him, ever since Dracula went into stasis; and for such selfish reasons, no less. I swear, Frankie, you and that man are so alike at times, it amazes me."

Vlad coughed loudly in an effort to keep from laughing, which earned him a peculiar look from the queen and a look of promised hell from his ignorant intended.

Oh, if only they knew…

"Yes, I will admit he is a very selfish man, but we are not discussing the personal failings of my king. Your majesty, we have reason to believe Augustine is sending an Invisible by the name of Vittoro to abduct your daughter and place her in the power of Marcus, and that he intends to use the new moon and your subsequent vulnerability to his advantage."

"Like I said before – that is absolute nonsense. Even if it were true, the assassins and their guild are nothing to us. They are merely well trained mortals with compromised nervous systems and keen senses. Impressive, certainly, and not to be taken lightly – but they have no reason to wish us harm. Though I must ask, where did this abominable rumor start?"

"It's not a rumor, Isabella. It came directly from Lyra," Frankie interjected. "You recall her connection to Augustine? I had told you the tale many years ago."

The queen's expression altered then, realization spreading across her countenance.

"Yes, I remember. You may continue, Mr. Leinhart."

"I used to work in the imperial palace alongside both Dracula and Augustine."

"That must have been a very trying occupation," her majesty sympathized.

"At times," he stated with that charming smile of his still in place. "The point is, I know what Augustine is capable of. Unfortunately, I have reason to believe his intentions toward your daughter, like your younger sister, are nothing but malicious."

"How do you know of…"

"I met your sister, the Princess Vivian, briefly when she had come to the palace to visit with his majesty before he went into stasis many years back. If I recall correctly, she has been acting as envoy between our two races for the last few decades… well, up until her unlawful incarceration. I know that for some time, she was heavily involved in the decisions of the previous council, until Augustine had refilled nearly every seat. I also understand that Vivian never returned from her last trip to the palace." Isabella was suddenly all ears. "Your majesty, I know what fate befell your sister."

The woman had to grip Frankie's hand in an effort to keep herself from falling to the ground, her shock was immense.

"Is she still alive?"

"Yes. I have the pleasure of informing you that your beloved sister is indeed still very much alive."

"But how could you possibly know this?"

"Before I left my post, I made some inquiries on a number of topics and upon my departure, I received word that she had been imprisoned in the palace dungeons."

"We all knew that, but we never heard anything else! How is she?"

"I unfortunately do not know all of the details, but I can tell you that she still breathes, though given Augustine's reputation, she may be a little worse for wear, if you understand my meaning."

At this point, Isabella's complexion had grown quite peaked. Her expression was one of horror and her hands were visibly trembling as she gripped Frankie's arm.

"What do you want from me sir?" she pleaded. "I would willingly give my soul to you if you could help me free my sister from such a hell."

"I assure you, I have no use for your soul," he replied. "All I ask is that you please do whatever Miss Chase tells you to do. Trust her. Believe me when I say she wants nothing more than to help you and your daughter… and your people. If we had more time to ensure the strength of your security, naturally, that would be our first priority and the question of removing your daughter from your care wouldn't even be a consideration. But we do not have the luxury of time. Your child is not safe here and we would not want her to meet the same fate as her aunt."

"Of course! I will do anything!"

"Vittoro and his cadre should be arriving at any moment, if Lyra's information is to be believed," he explained. "We would mostly humbly request that you relinquish your daughter to the protection of Miss Chase's brother and Danny Polovsty who will take Anna-Sophie to Carmen Guillermo, where she will be kept safe until the threat has been neutralized. Lyra Kennedy will stay here as your personal guard and will assist in keeping you out of harm's way, so your daughter will have a mother to return to. Miss Chase and I will take a decoy of your child into the sewers in hopes of luring the assassins to a more secluded location where we can then… neutralize the threat. Once they are in your custody, you may do whatever you wish to whatever remains of them, in accordance to your laws."

Isabella hesitated for a moment.

The idea of parting with her daughter was nearly unthinkable, particularly when it involved handing her over to a bunch of rebel vampires. But what choice did she have? If this Vittoro was as dangerous as they all thought, then it would be wise for her to pay heed to their warnings. If the moon had been full, then perhaps they would have stood a better chance, but it had waned these last few nights. The wolves were still dangerous, but by no means at their full strength. Not without the power of Selene. Clearly, this had been Augustine's intention.

After some consideration, the lycan queen relented.

"I am at your mercy," she replied after composing herself, slowly releasing Frankie's arm from her death grip as she stood before Vlad with as much dignity as she could. "But I only have one request. When you bring this Vittoro to me – or any of his comrades – I want them all dead. I do not want to risk having any of them escape when in our custody. I want them all destroyed as soon as may be."

"Would you prefer a traditional execution, your majesty?" he offered knowingly.

The queen's brow arched in surprise as a wicked smile curved her lips, her razor-like teeth glistening behind the satin flesh.

"In the old way?"

"But of course."

"How do you know of the old ways?"

"I have performed the act many times in the past and will personally see to it that the job is done with the utmost care. You have my word."

"And what of Vivian?"

"We will discuss the particulars at a later time, but have no fear. It will not be long before you see your sister again. Even if Miss Chase and I have to march directly into the palace to free her, we shall." He could feel the look of surprise that Frankie was sending his way, but he ignored it, holding out his hand to Isabella, eyes fixed on her. "Now then, are we agreed?"

The werewolf accepted his offer and shook his hand firmly.

"We most certainly are."

As if on cue, there was a loud rumble from outside and the doors flew open.

"My queen, we're under attack!" a man shouted as he entered the room, bowing as he ran.

Tristan was short behind with the others.

Isabella shouted something in Romanian and the two women who had taken Anna-Sophie re-entered the room with the young girl between them, hand in hand.

"Rémy Chase!"

Frankie's brother appeared immediately, bowing to the queen.

"Take my daughter. Protect her with your life. If she loses so much as one hair on her head, I will hold you personally responsible. Am I understood?"

Though taken aback by the woman's threat – not to mention her sudden change of heart – he nodded and extended his hand to the young girl. Before Anna-Sophie could move forward, she was swept up into the arms of her mother who hugged her fiercely. After whispering something in the girl's ear, she handed her daughter over to Rémy. The man who had first entered the room with the announcement of the attack was motioned forward.

"This is Killian, the general of our armies. He is going to escort you and Danny through the tunnels and to your vehicle as you take her to Carmen's. He will remain with you until Anna-Sophie is retrieved."

"Bella, Rémy and Danny are more than capable of keeping my niece safe. Killian should stay with you," Tristan insisted.

"And you wouldn't want us seen with him. If one of Vittoro's men sees him with us, they will immediately assume Anna-Sophie is with us as well," Rémy added, accepting the keys that his sister had just tossed to him.

"So he did bring friends with him."

"Unfortunately."

"Do we know how many?"

"No. With the way they mask their heartbeats, it's difficult to tell."

"But how are you to get her out if we don't know how many enemies are even here to begin with?"

Isabella sent Frankie an unsure expression.

"I trust my brother," she said. "He can be quite resourceful. They will get out undetected. Let them go."

With nothing more than a reluctant nod of consent from the queen, Rémy quickly swept the girl up into his arms and ran with inhuman speed into the tunnels, followed closely by Danny. The moment they were gone, another rumble echoed through the underworld and the two women looked at one another.

"They're getting close," Frankie pointed out, voice impeccably calm.

"Let them come," Lyra replied with boldness as she and Raul entered the room, a pair of twin automatic handguns in each of the redhead's fists. "I haven't properly killed anything in over a week."

With lightning maneuvering, she released the empty cartridges of her weapons before bringing them behind her back where her refills were strapped. With masterful precision and a couple of clicks, Lyra was loaded. The over-dramatic display put a hair of a smile on Frankie's face as Raul sent the armed woman a lewd grin, which was quickly greeted with a wink.

"Do you have some kind of article of clothing we could use?" Frankie inquired of Isabella as the others moved to the door, looking like a four-person army. "Something that Anna-Sophie has worn recently that we can use to lure the Invisible into the sewers. Invisibles are highly dependent on their sense of smell."

As Isabella went to go retrieve a cloak of her daughter's, Lyra's voice rang out in the air.

"We have company! Move your asses, you two!"

Isabella threw an emerald colored cloak at Frankie who caught it before bunching it up as Dracula grabbed hold of her upper arm to pull her toward the metal grate that led to the sewers. Isabella lifted it up with ease, motioning for the two to climb inside just as Lyra's first shot broke out into the air.

Vlad jumped in first, then held his arms up to catch Frankie. Clearly, she would have nothing of the sort because she jumped a little ways away from him and landed perfectly on her feet.

"So stubborn," he said with amusement while lowering his hands. Her only response was a single arched brow.

The grate shut loudly above their heads as Isabella shouted at them to start running. They could hear the battle that erupted in the throne room above them.

"I may not need you to catch me, Mr. Leinhart – but I will need you to keep up," and Frankie then bolted down the narrow tunnel of the abandoned sewer, the sounds of gunshots and angry growls echoing along the line.

"You know where you're going, right?" he shouted up ahead when he noticed the thick bank of mist up ahead.

"Just trust me," was all the woman said as she tore a piece of the cloak with her nails and tossed some of the rags behind her.

He sent her a bewildered look.

"What are you-"

"Breadcrumbs. Werewolves have a very potent scent. Here," and she tore another piece of the cloak and handed it to him as they continued to move. "Wipe it on your skin. If we run out of material, they'll still be able to smell her on us."

Impressed with the rather ingenious idea, he offered her a smile as he wiped his neck and the front of his clothes with the scrap of material before tossing it behind him.

"If I have to burn this suit because I can't get the stench of dog out, I'm sending you a bill."

Frankie laughed, still rubbing a bit of the cloth on her skin.

Dracula could barely see in front of them at this point and Frankie was shrouded in mist as she led them deeper underground. The sound of the grate they had previously passed through slamming shut suddenly echoed through the tunnel and the two stopped to look back.

There was a buzzing noise and Frankie reached into her pocket to pull out a small Bluetooth earpiece that she quickly put in.

"Frankie? Frankie, come in," came Lyra's voice.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"We've taken out most of these assholes, but Vittorio and few others gave us the slip. They should be headed your way right now."

"I could have told you that," Dracula muttered to himself, easily picking up on the conversation.

There was an uncertain silence for a few moments and he looked over at Frankie to see her staring directly into the darkness as if she were watching something.

"Okay, that happened a lot faster than I had anticipated," Frankie suddenly confessed.

"What do you mean?"

An otherworldly noise suddenly echoed through the tunnel, though it was from a distance. It almost sounded like a distorted cry or growl, mutated… unnatural. As the echo began to die down, the two vampires could soon hear the footsteps of their stalkers with their heightened senses.

"They've picked up the scent already."

"Ah. Well, I think we've stood here long enough."

"Couldn't agree more."

The two took off into the labyrinth once again, running for several minutes before finally emerging from the thick mist. The tunnels were nearly pitch black, save for the faint lights of the street lamps several yards overhead. Though vampires could see very well in the dark, this was different.

The mist from the tunnels they had just emerged from had been so thick, it had been nearly impossible to distinguish much of anything. He had silently followed Frankie, who appeared to know where she was going, but at this point, Dracula had already begun to lose track of the numerous turns they had taken. It made him feel rather helpless, not knowing exactly where they were. It was a feeling he was unaccustomed to.

At last she stopped moving, taking in their surroundings.

The stench was vile – filth and waste and the devil knew what else. It was as if something from the foulest pits of hell had climbed in here to rot and as one of the undead, having an unnatural sense of smell was doing him no favors at the moment.

"Where are we going? Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

"There's a larger opening up ahead that's right beneath an old blood factory. It's filled with tunnels and large pipe-ways; we can set up a trap easily over there," and she started to move forward, at a light jog this time.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"How much farther?"

"Why? Are you getting tired?" she teased, glancing behind her.

"Ha! I never tire. I have the stamina that would put a Herculean God to shame."

"And the humility to boot," she laughed back at him.

"Pot, have you met my friend kettle?"

Though she continued to smile, Frankie chose not to respond, her refusal to take his bait secretly disappointing him.

"We're almost there. When the stench hits you, you'll know we've made it."

"I've been smelling nothing but sewage and dog for the last ten minutes," he pointed out. "How am I supposed to know if… ce pula mea!" ( * )

Frankie had halted without warning and he almost ran right into her, having to dig his talon-like nails straight into the ancient brick walls of the tunnel in order to keep from doing so. He cursed quietly under his breath when he realized why Frankie had stopped so abruptly. At the end of the tunnel was a large opening where he could see a huge waterfall up ahead; only it wasn't water that was spilling from one of the large pipes – but blood.

The color of blood in the moonlight appeared almost black, but the smell was unmistakable. Vlad looked down at his feet, realizing that they had been running in the stuff, at least two inches of it. The liquid before them was thick and clumpy, as if it contained chunks of decaying flesh, waste, and other vile things, but it was the stench that made werewolves smell like peonies by comparison. He had to keep himself from gagging.

It had been a long time since he had inhaled the reek of death and rotting flesh, especially in this magnitude. It vaguely reminded him of a killing field after three days left to fester in a summer sun.

"Ah. Well… perhaps some warning next time before you stop abruptly and nearly send us falling into the abyss."

She turned to glance back at him.

"Perhaps if you had been paying better attention, you wouldn't need me to point out the obvious to you," she stated with a smug grin before proceeding forward. "Then again, you were so busy promoting your stamina," and she stepped out of the tunnel and onto the narrow walkway that ran along the walls of the opening.

"I don't have to promote it," he replied, materializing so he was suddenly standing in front of her.

She jumped back in surprise and almost lost her footing, but he caught her before she could grasp the wall for support. His hand had gripped her wrist and he pulled her forward in an effort to help steady her.

"My fortitude speaks for itself," he purred softly once she was stable again. His irises glowed for a brief moment, but she was quick to remove herself from his hold, immediately diverting her attention elsewhere as she wiped some invisible nothingness from her blouse to distract herself. "Now then, since you insist upon being the brains of this operation, how do you plan on taking out Vittorio?"

"Well, somebody has to be in charge," she muttered.

"Trust issues and a dominant streak."

"Oh, you have no idea," she replied with an absent smile as she removed her earpiece.

"You know, I would love to sit here and banter with you all night, but we have a job to do."

"I know," and she pulled a small bit of putty from a plastic bag she had kept in her coat pocket. "Stick that to the wall over there."

He held the sticky substance in his hand and looked between it and the woman before him who was now trying to get a hold of her brother. Dracula had never been the sort of man to take direct orders – he was usually the one giving them. It was an odd turn of events.

"Hey, Rémy. Come in Rémy. I need you to send me a recording of Anna-Sophie speaking ASAP. Preferably something a little whiny. Over."

"Copy – that shouldn't be a problem. Give me 60. Over."

She then turned to look back and Vlad to see if he had obeyed her instructions, only to find him still standing there.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

Dracula took a step toward her, his smile dark.

"I'm waiting for you to say please."

She actually rolled her eyes.

"There's an indeterminate number of assassins coming right for us and you want me to ask you to do something nicely?"

"I only heard three heartbeats following after us, so it's nothing we can't handle. As for asking me nicely… you could always do it yourself since you're so strong and independent," he challenged, something inherently suggestive and flirtatious in his tone.

Frankie snatched the putty from his hand, before walking past him, whispering in his ear. The way the air of her words caressed his skin for only a moment sent a shiver spider-walking down his spine.

"Then please stay out of my way," she crooned, the way she murmured the word please blatantly sexual. It sent him smiling.

When she was behind him, he turned to watch her scale down a ways to another tunnel system where she stuck the earpiece to the wall, playing Rémy's recording of Anna-Sophie asking for her mother on a loop. She then took what was left of the cloak, draping it over a small pile of trash so it looked like the girl was curled up in a corner. When Frankie was done, she rose from her crouched position, noting that the man was still where she had left him, staring at her.

"Are you going to help at some point tonight, Mr. Leinhart, or must I do all the work?" she inquired.

"And what do you call what I did back there with Isabella?"

"I call it being suspiciously well-informed," Frankie replied candidly, wiping something off her hands after she made her way back to him.

"I am well-informed, but you have no reason to be suspicious. I used to work for Dracula, and now I do not."

"How do I know that?"

They were face to face again, and though he was a good head taller than she, Frankie didn't seem the least bit intimidated by the height difference. The intensity in her gaze never wavered.

"You don't, but I dislike being questioned constantly, almost as much as you do. It's like what you said earlier… just trust me."

After staring into her eyes for a couple seconds, he prepared to move away so they could hide as the Invisible and his posse were undoubtedly nearby, but Frankie remained rooted to the spot.

"I don't trust you," she stated firmly.

"Don't you?" he scoffed darkly, leaning in now, voice low. "Not even a little? If you truly didn't trust me, you wouldn't be down here right now, would you? Alone… with no one to save you. For all you know, I could be an ally of Vittoro. Why else would I know so much about him?"

He moved in a bit closer and she retreated back as he continued to advance until they had vanished into one of the more shadowed tunnels. She only stopped when he had her pinned against a wall.

"Or maybe I work for Augustine? After all, I know about Vivian, I know where she is kept. I could give you the cell number, the exact coordinates of her location. Perhaps I'm here to infiltrate your little rag-tag bunch of revolutionaries. It's not impossible, and yet, despite all the probability and all of your suspicions…"

Dracula reached out and took her neck in his hand, an assertive act of dominance – and one he knew now she secretly enjoyed. She didn't try to push him away as he held her in his hand, gently bringing her a little closer to him. He held her gaze with utter boldness, the application of just a little pressure forcing her jaw to angle upward so her eyes would continue to meet his. Their bodies never touched as he leaned in – a calculated move – but the intimacy he had created sent a tremor of desire to shudder through the woman's body.

"Despite it all, Francesca, there is a part of you that can't help but be drawn in, that can't help but trust me; even if your instincts scream not to," he concluded. "I wonder what that says about you?"

The temptation to close her eyes and surrender to the long forgotten feel of another's touch on her skin was alarming. She had never liked it in the past when men tried to rule over her – physically or otherwise. But with his hand on her throat in a blatant show of authority, she found herself getting strangely weak in the knees… and even a little damp.

It was especially odd because had it been anyone else, she would have immediately defended herself, turned the tables, reclaimed control. But there was a foreign kind of power that exuded from his person as he towered over her, something dark but profoundly alluring. She made it a point to appear impassive, bored even. But deep down, the look in his eyes, the power in his hand – it secretly thrilled her to her core.

"I am not afraid of you," she said a beat later and with what firmness she could muster. To this, he only smiled, his attention moving down to her lips, consideration in his gaze.

"No – perhaps you're not," he replied thoughtfully. His voice was barely a whisper, and while his hold on her had slackened considerably, the soft caress of his fingers on her neck nearly undid her. "But you're afraid of something… I can smell it on you."

She swayed forward just a fraction in response and Dracula would have kissed her then, the air between them rife with sexual tension, but something interrupted them – a noise that broke through the roar of the rancid falls.

The pair turned to see a figure in black scaling the wall of the opening near the crimson cascades. There were two others, one in the tunnel they had originally climbed out of, and another on the opposite side of the causeway, warily looking at the raging torrent beneath them.

Frankie's countenance had changed entirely, her dark blue eyes suddenly focused, as if the tension from earlier had never even existed. Either that, or she was extraordinary at compartmentalizing. She looked at Vlad briefly, a silent conversation of looks ending with little more than a nod as the woman then slid into position, keeping to the shadows.

As she moved, Dracula took in Vittoro, nearing the tunnel where Frankie had deposited of Anna-Sophie's cloak, the man using one of the old chains that hung near the center of the chamber to repel himself down from the walkway. The assassin's two companions continued to keep their eyes peeled for any other movement.

Frankie silently removed one of the slender blades of Damascus steel from the sheath strapped to her thigh. There was a pause as she steadied herself and then she flicked her wrist like a striking asp, the blade soaring through the air. The steel glinted in the dim evening light for just a hair of a second before finding its home in the throat of one of the mercenaries. There was no cry or breath of surprise; just the slink of metal through flesh. But the fall of their comrade from the causeway and into the rancid waterfall caught the other's attention, just as he disappeared under the dark fountain.

Before either could react, Frankie had leapt the entire distance to the other assassin keeping watch, leaving Vittoro for Dracula to dispose of.

As the female fought the surviving member of the Invisible's cadre, Vlad used the distraction to slip out of the tunnel and into the opening, little more than shadow and mist in the darkness as he descended. Vittoro had begun to move faster down the wall toward the tunnel, but in his haste, the chain slipped from its holding above. The abrupt movement nearly had him losing his grip as the chain in his hand grew slack and gravity started to pull him downward.

At the last second, the cold metal grew taught, catching, but it had also coiled around his leg. With a snap, he was flipped upside down, ankle breaking from the sudden dead weight. To his credit, the mortal didn't scream – his profane utterance drowned out by the falls a couple of yards away. His head was mere feet from a large hunk of broken cement, propping up the pipe that would have bashed his head in.

The fight between the remaining assassin and Frankie could be heard several stories up above and for a moment, in spite of his predicament, Vittoro nearly sighed in relief… until his body, still tangled on the chain, stopped turning just long enough for him to notice a figure in black standing before him.

Though the face of the dark figure was familiar, he could not place it at first, as if some spell was keeping him from remembering… but he knew those shoes, knew that confident gait, those fierce blue eyes.

The Invisible was soon able to identify the approaching angel of death as Dracula and his eyes widened in recognition.

"You," he whispered, full of disbelief, but before he could continue, the vampire moved with inhuman speed. He took the assassin by the head and snapped his neck, nearly decapitating him. Frankie appeared moments later after the remaining mercenary – bloody and broken – tumbled down into the dark abyss of filth, hitting a protruding pipe on his way down as he did so, snapping his spine in half.

With feline grace, the woman landed safely a few feet from Vlad and the now-dead Invisible, her expression furrowing when she noticed the state of their quarry's neck.

"I thought we were going to question him."

"There's no need. We already know what he's doing here," Vladislaus replied, reaching for the chain that continued to keep Vittoro strung up like some kind of animal and with a sharp yank, the corpse was loose. With some help, he was able to have it land before them in a heap.

"That is beside the point," she insisted, watching as Dracula lifted the deceased assassin up and over his shoulder before materializing them into the pipeline they had previously been in. Frankie growled her annoyance, but still followed.

"And what, dragă, is the point?" he replied after she joined him. He had placed the body down in one of the cleaner tunnels and was now crouched down beside it. Though his face was shadowed, she knew he was looking up at her. His expression remained unaltered, but she could have sworn she saw a flash of surprise in his eyes after quickly looking her over.

Not a scratch.

Impressive, his smile seemed to say, but that was all.

He began to rustle through Vittoro's clothes, searching.

"Don't call me that," she said. The corner of his lips twitched, but he remained focused on the task at hand.

"What? Dragă?"

"I'm not your dear or beloved."

Still his gaze remained on the corpse in front of him, but even in the darkness, she could sense him smirking.

"Give it time."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm still waiting for an answer," he reminded her, purposefully changing the subject. She was about to call him out when he gave a little "ah ha" before removing a leather pouch from Vittoro's person.

Quickly emptying the contents from the small purse, he began to rummage about, clearly looking for something else. This seem to make Frankie forget what she had been asking him, now more engaged in the fact that the man had just removed a very sharp knife from the dead assassin's boot.

"What are you doing?"

Dracula purposefully ignored her, studying the weapon carefully.

"This is a good blade."

He ran its edge over his thumb, cutting himself. Blood immediately began to ooze from the small wound and Frankie eyed the little droplet like a small child would a coveted treat. She placed her hand over her stomach, suddenly remembering how hungry she was. Dracula licked the blood from his finger slowly, fully aware of what he was doing, of the temptation he was presenting. Her eyes were fixed on the movement of his tongue.

"And it's sharp. Excellent."

Frankie felt herself waver, eyes flickering from the now healed cut on his thumb to where remnants of his blood had stained his lips… such lovely lips. Soft. Sinful. She wanted to lick them.

But instead, she shook her head to dispel the thoughts before they could take root.

"What are you doing?" she asked again, hoping conversation would be enough to distract her.

"Hmm? Oh, just fulfilling my part of the bargain," he replied casually.

"Which part?"

Their eyes met and held for a brief moment until Dracula carefully moved his hand. Her gaze quickly left his to watch as his fingers hovered over Vittoro's face. Without warning, he suddenly dug two of the digits into the eye socket of the corpse, pulling the ball straight out before using the knife to sever the nerves that kept it attached to the body. Frankie visibly shuddered and turned away.

"Ugh… no matter how old I get, I don't think I'll ever get used to people messing about with eyeballs still in their sockets. Why do you need it, anyway?"

"I promised Isabella a traditional execution – only we are technically supposed to be doing this while he's alive. A minor detail. You won't tell, will you?"

Frankie shook her head gently before managing to return her gaze, soon fascinated by what he was doing. She crouched down on the other side of the corpse, observing as he worked.

"So what are you doing exactly?" she asked him, unable to suppress her curiosity.

"Could you hold open that small pouch for me, please?"

She sent him a narrowed look at his facetious emphasis before obeying, holding the small bag open as he proceeded to drop the eyeball inside.

"Werewolves have had certain sets of customs for centuries – which makes sense, considering they've been around longer than our kind has. Most of the old superstitions and legends have died with age, but the vetus lupus take their history and traditions very seriously."

"So the old way you had mentioned, what you're doing now… it's ritualistic?" she asked as he grabbed hold of Vittoro's jaw before breaking it with his bare hands.

The snap was sickening, but Frankie continued to look on as, with surgical precision, he sliced the cheeks apart, opening the mouth completely, his hands soon bathed in blood.

"Yes. This one is as barbaric as it is ancient. I can't recall its origins – to own the truth, it predates even me – but the legend says that before an enemy of the wolf is killed, the executioner must remove one item of the body that represents each of the five senses, followed lastly by the heart."

"So kind of like a disembowelment, only we're removing eyes, fingers, et cetera, and all this while the victim is still alive," she clarified, reaching forward to hold the tongue out for him. There was a flicker of surprise that flashed across his features at the action, but she missed it. He took the blade and ran it carefully along the flesh until the tongue had been removed. He then placed it inside the pouch.

"Precisely. Granted, at its core it's really just another form of mutilating one's adversaries, prolonging their pain before the inevitable blood loss and shock claims their life – but what makes this particularly special is the myth that doing this has magical value," he went on while removing an ear.

"How is this supposed to be magical?" she chuckled.

"If you destroy the heart of a foe, their body dies, but there's an old fable stating that by removing and burning a representation of each of the senses with the heart, said enemy cannot return from the afterlife to torment you. They have nothing – life, nor senses – to keep them bound to this earthly plane. At least, that's how the story goes. Personally, I think it's because someone was especially cross one day and wanted an ethical reason to torture someone."

"Oh, the boundless imagination of man – always thinking of new ways to cause each other pain," Frankie sighed as he dropped the nose inside the bag next. "So which hand do you cut from? Or does it not matter?"

"When in doubt, choose the right," he quoted, motioning toward the hand next to her knee. "That's what my father used to say."

Frankie took hold of the Vittoro's right hand and held out the index finger, popping it out of place so it would be easier to remove. With a clean swipe, Dracula was able to confiscate the digit and he placed it in the pouch with the other parts.

"Was your father a vampire?" she asked, watching as he tore open the assassin's shirt, exposing the well-built physique of the man's chest. The taut skin stretched over carefully structured muscles – a lifetime of training and discipline, now gone to waste.

"Not in the literal sense, no," Dracula finally answered, pressing the tip of the blade against the center of the man's chest. "But he was definitely one of the emotional variety."

"Who was he?"

With very little pressure, the tip cut through flesh and he drew a long line down the center before pushing his fingers beneath the bloody skin as he carefully pulled it apart from the muscle as if he were opening a book. Cracking the sternum with the butt of his knife, he then proceeded to break each rib individually, one by one as he made his way to the heart.

Though clearly focused on his work, the expression he wore was grave.

"My father was the illegitimate son of a prince; a warrior and a decent enough man by all accounts in his earlier years. He was given the opportunity to join a special order of men, united to protect my homeland from infidels and heretics. He had everything a man at that time could want – power, prestige, four healthy sons, a beautiful wife… yet despite it all, he always proved to be a better soldier than a father."

"I'm sorry."

Dracula didn't seem to hear her. He was too lost to the blood and carnage beneath him. When he got to the lifeless heart lying within the gory chasm, he paused, his stare vacant. His silence was beginning to weigh down on Frankie, so in an effort to dispel it, she continued to press a little further.

"You mentioned that your father wasa decent enough man. What did you mean by that?" she inquired carefully.

Dracula had had a feeling she'd ask him that question.

It was difficult enough, telling her his true history without making it obvious. He could lie to her about his identity, but when it came to who he was – who he once was – he couldn't find it in him to deceive her further. She of all people, ironically enough, had the right to know. It had been a very long time since he had confronted one of the darkest chapters of his past – his mortal existence.

"When his attempts to protect my home and family from our enemies failed, he sold my younger brother and I to our foes in a sue for peace."

"He sold you?"

"Yes and for a tentative alliance. We were taken from our homeland and I spent much of my adolescence in a foreign country. My brother embraced the indoctrination imposed upon us, but I was stubborn and irrationally patriotic. I fought my captors at every chance I could and was regularly corrected for my trouble."

"You mean they tortured you."

Dracula paused for just a brief moment, the memories of nearly a millennia ago still fresh in his mind as though they had happened yesterday. He was quick to shake off the ghosts of his past, though, before they could acquire any proper footing, proceeding with his work, all the while attempting to appear indifferent to his own suffering.

"Yes."

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen."

"How long were you in captivity?"

"A good many years. When I was free, I was able to raise an army and take my revenge, but it was a hollow victory as the innocence they had stolen from my brother and I could never be restored."

"Did you ever see your father again?"

"Once, many years later. I was grown then, with a family of my own, but still not the sort of man he had wanted me to be. He declared me a disappointment and banished me from his presence, all but disowning me."

"And after everything you had been through because of him? What could you have possibly done to justify such callous disapproval?" she asked him, offering to take the heart in his hands, but he didn't give it to her right away.

He was still staring intently at the now empty chasm of Vittoro's chest.

Vlad's past monstrosities and sins seemed to flash before him suddenly: at his command, he had had tens of thousands impaled; people were boiled alive, skinned, scalped, roasted, and mutilated. He had excused it once – insisting his actions were for the good of his country, that the fear he struck in the heart of the Turks and surrounding nations had saved his people.

But at what cost to himself?

At some point, he had crossed a line – a line between death for the sake of duty and death for the sheer pleasure of it, the power it gave him. And as consequence, he had lost his soul. When God had abandoned him, it was easy to turn the other way, to feed his misery and succumb to the whispers of the devil, who soon had him ushering in souls to sure damnation by the hundreds. Well, until the pact they had made was declared forfeit as the souls of deceased vampires met neither the gates of heaven, nor hell – but instead lingered in a purgatory-like state, untouched, unjudged, and forever doomed to remain thus.

The truth of it was, heaven could not lay claim to Dracula and his kind, and neither could hell, and in a strange sort of way, it felt like he was being rejected not only by God and the Devil, but by the universe at large, leaving him abandoned to the vast emptiness of a life without any real purpose. It was a cross he had long since grown tired of carrying.

Vladislaus soon realized that Frankie was still waiting for an answer to her question and he managed to look up at her, finding solace in her gaze.

There was no fear or judgment in her eyes.

He nearly smiled at the sight of it.

"I made many poor decisions, many of which I do not regret, though perhaps I should. But there is nothing we can do to change the past. We can't go back, no matter how much we may wish to. All that remains is the present and what we decide to do with it will shape the course of our future."

Frankie said nothing, but her contemplative expression spoke volumes.

His words struck a chord in her, he could see it in her eyes, even with the poor lighting and less-than-desirable setting. There was sympathy in her face, yes, but there was also understanding. He could tell just by looking at her that she knew personally what it was that he felt and it made him curious – what was her story, her tale of woe, as the old storybooks said?

Now was not the time to ask such questions, however, and so to dispel the silence, Dracula straightened his posture, lifted his chin, and handed her the heart resting in his palm. She accepted it, thinking nothing of it as she placed the lifeless organ into the overcrowded pouch.

"That was a long time ago, however," he continued, the words delivered with conviction. He then stood, wiping his hands off with what was left of Vittoro's shirt – not that it mattered. His entire person was littered in blood and filth. "It was a different time, a different age – all of it in the past where it belongs. It's a personal philosophy of mine not to linger long in the presence of ghosts."

Dracula grabbed hold of Vittoro's arms and with a single heave, draped the body over his shoulder as Frankie closed up the bag.

"What's the point in taking the body?"

"I think I'll allow her majesty the pleasure of properly disposing of the corpse."

"And the others?"

He sent her a wry look.

"Are you volunteering to dive into that hell hole to go fetch them?"

Her expression made him laugh.

"I didn't think so. Those, however," he replied, motioning to the small, overstuffed bag in her hand, "are souvenirs. You women and your collective affinity for trinkets."

Frankie followed him back into the tunnel and away from the roar of the blood falls.

"I don't keep body parts as trinkets." she remarked tartly.

"Perhaps not in the literal sense, but I have it on good authority that you have stolen many a heart in your day."

"The affection of another is quite different from a disembodied organ soaked in blood," she insisted, despite his chuckling. "And for the record, I don't steal hearts – not anymore, anyway. Haven't in decades… centuries even."

"But the rumor does have truth to it?" he teased.

"Remind me to sew my brother's lips shut when next we see him."

"Oh come now – I only go to him because you would never tell me these things yourself."

"How would you know? You've never asked me."

"So if I asked you to list for me the names of every lover you've ever had, you'd do so without hesitation?"

"Certainly not!" she exclaimed, only to smirk mischievously. "There's far too many. I'd never be able to recount them all."

"Careful now, Miss Chase."

"Hmm?"

"You continue in this manner and I may start to like you."

"And if you did that, it would spoil everything," she agreed with a sparkle in her eye. "After all, what was that quaint little term you used to describe our relationship to Isabella? Frenemies?"

"It's inadequate, I know," he admitted.

"Especially since we are definitely not friends by any stretch of the imagination."

"No, of course we're not," he said, still smiling.

( * ) According to a nifty little website I found featuring Romanian curses and swearing, ce pula mea is basically the Romanian equivalent of what the fuck in English, although the literal translation is actually what my dick – which I find to be fucking hilarious.

REVIEW, MY DARLINGS! REVIEWWWWW! lol