Thank you to those who took the time to leave reviews this weekend - Jazlynn Dark, Scarlet Empress, She-Devil Red, Arwen17evenstar, cneajna, and Riona Winters.

CW: some references to things of a sexual nature, but nothing too crazy.

Copyright © 2021 TSM. All rights reserved.

Chapter 23
Return and Report

The sound of the cab door shutting was still ringing in his ears as he stalked out of the street and into a neighboring alley, away from Francesca and her utterly baffling hot-and-cold temperament. Dracula couldn't even begin to wrap his head around what had just happened.

How on earth was she still fighting him… and more importantly, why?

He had been so close!

He could taste the remnants of her weakening resolve on his tongue, the delicate aroma of her blossoming arousal. The soft noises she unconsciously made as he had so carefully caressed her face were suddenly amplified in his head – those divine sighs and sensuous whimpers. She had been there, right in the palm of his hand only to inexplicably leap out of his hold like some kind of fiendish rabbit bolting away from a wolf. What was worse – her absence had left him with whiplash and a painfully unsatisfied feeling of tightness in the center of his chest… and elsewhere – a bit lower – if he was being wholly honest.

She had hit the nail on the head, though, when she had said she was growing on him, but she had no idea just how much, nor of the alarming rate at which it was all occurring. He hadn't really noticed until these last few hours when their shared company had been so pleasant and effortless. But now she was gone, locked away in that cab, whereas he was here, out in the cursed rain.

Covered in blood.

Reeking of werewolf and sewage.

Dejected, starving, and sexually frustrated beyond belief.

Could this morning get any worse?

Well, his lack of a physical reaction to the stunning stranger who had just accidentally bumped into him reminded the vampire that things were in fact worse than previously assumed. The prophecy and Frankie's bewildering person had been one thing, but Lilith's emasculating curse proved an entirely different matter. As he watched a beautiful nameless female making her way down a side street by herself, he couldn't help but mourn all those times before when he had been an agent of his own free will.

If he had not been bound to the chains of prophecies and curses, he would have pursued that now long-gone mortal. She probably would have proved an easy conquest, but it would have salved his wounded pride and oh how he needed that right now.

His stomach rumbled suddenly and in a moment of pure instinct, Dracula recognized that although he could not fulfill his more "baser instincts" as Francesca had referred to them, he could at the very least feed, and so he diverted from his previous course, tracking the unsuspecting human from earlier a few blocks ahead. It took little time at all to catch up to her, tempting her into a poorly-lit alley after catching her attention, ensnaring her will with ease, and partaking of the fountain that soon became her wounded throat.

Throughout Dracula's unnaturally prolonged existence, feeding had been synonymous with pleasure. And while the nameless mortal's blood fulfilled the hunger of his body, he was left wanting after he patched her up and dismissed her from his presence with a silent wave of his fingers.

All he could think about was Francesca Chase – those violet-blue eyes, that dark mahogany brown hair, and her divinely sharp and wicked tongue.

Dracula wondered absently as he wiped the excess blood from his mouth what his intended would taste like and a memory stirred – she had mentioned that she did not cavort with her own kind because they were incapable of keeping their fangs to themselves. But why would that matter? Perhaps she was one of those vampires with a rare blood type, the kind that was so delectable, so delicious to the taste, a weaker man would be unable to stop himself from bleeding her dry.

Vladislaus' lips pursed into an arrogant smirk as he continued to wander through the streets of Budapest. If that was indeed Francesca's concern, he could easily put that to rest for he was no ordinary man. But if this were the case, why not just come out and say so? Why the continued secrecy?

Although he stank of werewolf and filth and needed a proper shower more than anything else, his thoughts of Rémy's younger sister were enough to keep him fully distracted. Within the hour, he found himself on a familiar abandoned street, standing before Bernardini's residence. Completely oblivious to the picture he probably presented, he entered without thought, only halting in his progress when he realized the astonished look on his friend's face upon his arrival.

As if on cue, lightning lit up the sky behind Vlad as the torrential downpour turned suddenly vicious. He lingered silently in the doorway for a spell, finally taking into account that he was actually soaked thorough and no doubt appearing as if he had been freshly spat out of hell itself. It was quite the spectacle, which accounted for the slightest of smiles now curving the Italian's lips.

"You look awful," was the first thing his friend said, and then with a sniff of the air, Bernardini's nose scrunched up in disgust. "And you reek of wet dog and the devil knows what else. I leave you to your own devices for a few hours and this is what happens…"

Dracula's eyes narrowed and Antón held up his hands in defense, struggling not to smile.

"Very well, you're in a mood. You know where the shower is. And I still have some clothes lying around that should fit you. Help yourself to whatever you need. I'll be in my study when you are ready to explain yourself."

Without another word, Bernardini watched as his sire shut the front door behind him, making his way wordlessly up the stairs. As soon as Dracula reached the second floor and was out of sight, he began to remove his clothes, pulling his belt through the loops of his pants before dropping it onto the floor of the hall unceremoniously so he could grab hold of the front of his soiled shirt and tear it free, popping buttons and releasing a bit of that pent up frustration as the ground groaned beneath the weight of his heavy stride.

With a sharp turn, he proceeded into the room that had originally been set aside for his use when he had first escaped from the palace. Kicking his shoes from his feet, he closed the bedroom door behind him, the power of his will sending the faucet of the shower squeaking as it turned itself on. The steam of the hot water in the washroom was soon beckoning him as he stripped himself of his remaining garments.

The moment he stepped under the running water, he could feel his temper ebbing away as the chill deep in his flesh began to thaw. Dracula rested his forehead against the cool tiles of the shower wall and released a drawn out sigh of momentary defeat.

Francesca.

Stubborn, beautiful, maddening Francesca.

He couldn't get the infernal woman out of his head.

It was as if she had dug her claws into his gray matter and now refused to vacate the premises, no matter how much logic and rationality he threw her way. No matter what he did, he couldn't seem to root her out.

The recollection of her abrasive and bewildering rejection managed to find its way into the forefront of his brain and he was suddenly hard and aching all over. Exhausted, he allowed his knees to give way as they slowly met the shower floor, the spray continuing to pummel his body. He replayed their most recent interactions in his head on a loop, retracing his steps of the last few hours, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong, why she would encourage his attentions one minute and then push him away in the next.

She had been more than willing to oblige him in a harmless game of flirtation, but a few hours later she was vehemently declaring that they could and would never be anything more than indifferent acquaintances.

Was the woman bi-polar?

Maybe she was borderline.

The cynic in him chuckled at the thought, but the more rational side of him was certain some mental disorder was not the cause of these present issues. No – she was deeply conflicted; he could feel it. Now that he had had a moment to think about the things she had said, the way in which she had looked at him in the last twenty-four hours, it became all the more clear. She wanted to continue on the course they had been on – her willingness earlier had made that abundantly plain, but something unseen kept interfering, stopping her before any real progress could be made.

He dare not believe that her loyalty to her betrothed was the reason for this sense of conscience, so what was it? Dracula couldn't even begin to imagine, and after pushing himself to his feet once more so he could more actively cleanse himself of that werewolf stench, he eventually came to the conclusion that Bernardini would have insights. A pity he could not bring Miss Chase to meet his old friend – perhaps the woman could benefit from some professional therapy.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom, Dracula was surprised to discover that the soiled clothing he had left in a trail behind him had been picked up in his absence and resting on the bed was a change of clothes. Grateful for the consideration, he dressed and then made his way down stairs. As promised, he found his old friend seated in his usual place beside the fire in his study, a bottle of blood-spiked brandy and two glasses strategically situated on the small end table beside him.

Bernardini looked up when Dracula entered the room, motioning with his hand to the chair across from him. Vlad accepted the seat but refused the offered refreshment with a wave as his hand, his many thoughts instead drawing his gaze to the dancing flames. The lack of conversation lasted for several drawn out minutes as Bernardini studied the man before him, elbow propped up on the armrest, chin resting on his fist.

"Although you certainly smell better, Vladislaus," the Italian pointed out, reaching for the brandy beside him, "you still stink." Dracula sent him a bewildered expression and the older man smiled, raising his glass to him. "Of rejection," he explained knowingly before taking a drink. "So, what did the infamous Miss Chase do this time?"

Dracula didn't answer and his lack of response was something Antón quietly took note of.

"Very well. Clearly that is the wrong question to ask. I shall try again. Why did you reek of dog?"

"I was in lycan territory with Rémy and a couple of the others this morning."

"I could smell that." Bernardini was all cheek. "Was the… objective accomplished?"

"Yes, with relative ease."

"Relative ease is good, and common place with you."

"Not as common as I would prefer."

"Ah, so the unveiling of the problem at hand has commenced. Excellent," he replied, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. The king of vampires almost resembled that of a moping child, sitting there in the over-sized chair, clearly out of sorts. "So, are you going to describe these events, or are you going to leave your old friend in the dark?"

Dracula finally stirred from his seat, clearing his throat briefly before facing his friend.

"Marcus sent Vittoro to kidnap Queen Isabella's daughter – Anna-Sophie – in hopes of inciting civil war between the werewolves and the vampires. We went down there to remove the girl from harm and neutralize the threat. I offered to deal with Vittoro personally and…and Miss Chase was appointed to the occupation as well."

"Ah… Miss Chase. Was she selected through default or did she volunteer?"

"It was Rémy's decision and she made no real objections."

"I see."

"We were able to dispose of Vittoro by leading him into the sewers and surprising him there."

"The sewers? So that wasn't just dog I smelled on you?"

Vlad sent him a scathing look.

"How did you two manage to find your way through?" the Italian continued.

"Evidently, she knows the underground like I know the Carpathian Mountains."

"Like the back of her hand, then."

"Yes. We lured Vittoro into a trap and were able to take care of him and what remained of his posse without an audience."

"Did the Invisible recognize you? That charm I gave you doesn't always work on humans the way it works on our kind."

"It took him a moment, but yes, he did recognize me, though I was able to dispose of him before he revealed my identity. Miss Chase naturally didn't approve of my actions, but she must have forgotten when I began to perform the dismemberment."

"In the old way?"

"Yes."

"Glad to hear some traditions still thrive amongst the werewolves. Did your barbaric behavior disgust your betrothed?" Bernardini teased.

"No. Actually she seemed rather intrigued by it."

"That must have surprised you."

"Not as much as her questions about my father."

"And did you tell her about old Vlad Dracul, or did you share another one of your made-up stories?"

"I told her the truth, with a great deal of the particulars left out, of course. But it was the truth, nonetheless."

"How did she take it?"

"I believe she pitied me."

"For which part?"

"All of it, most likely. My time as a mortal isn't something most would envy."

"That's fair. So what happened after that?"

"We returned what remained of Vittoro to Isabella. She thanked us, Francesca offered some suggestions of how they could improve their security, and we were pretty much on our way shortly thereafter."

Bernardini's brows rose a bit at the sound of Frankie's given name.

It was the first time his king had referred to the woman by her proper name instead of the usual Miss Chase – at least in his presence. Resisting the temptation to point out the slip-of-tongue, he remained silent as Dracula continued.

"We walked all the way through the south district in comfortable silence for a while until the two of us began to talk." A small smile began to unconsciously appear on his lips. "But, as is becoming tradition, the light banter and teasing turned a bit vicious. I found the turn of events a little humorous at first until she started to become more confrontational and then I admittedly lost my patience. She has this uncanny ability – like you do, come to think of it – where she knows exactly which nerve to hit and how hard."

"You didn't lash out, did you?"

"No, no, of course not. I had intended to use firmness to at least put an end to her rudeness, but that didn't quite work out the way I had initially intended."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean one minute I'm in her face, ready to scold her and the next, I'm trying to seduce her – as if it were instinct."

"Wait… trying? As in you were unsuccessful?"

Another narrowed look was sent the Italian's way.

"Don't rub it in."

"I wasn't rubbing it in. I'm just astonished."

"As was I. I was barely even making an attempt and she was suddenly sitting in the palm of my hand. All the indications were there – she was receptive, open, and then out of nowhere, she just… shuts down. I could feel her body responding to me – her wanting was there in her eyes, but she just turned it off like a switch and then she went off on how I had no business pursuing her. She was so cold all of a sudden, distant – as if she were holding me at arm's length."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. She had said no, so I let her go. We walked in silence, and the first cab that came within sight I waved down and sent her as far away as I could possibly get her."

"You mean you didn't persist? That isn't like you, Vladislaus."

"In truth, I'm not even sure I want to continue this, let alone if I should. She was adamant, determined to keep me away from her and the more I replay it in my head the more I begin to believe that she doesn't necessarily want to do that, but for some unknown reason, she feels the need to do so… like she's afraid of something."

"How you can tell?"

"Her expressions don't match her words. She's deeply conflicted. The scent of it is almost as strong as her fear."

"But how can you be sure you're not just projecting?" Bernardini inquired, leaning forward in his seat, fascinated by this latest development.

"I can't explain. It's just a feeling. I don't know how I know, I just do. Maybe it was her tone of voice, or perhaps it was the way she looked back at me after she got in the cab; but my instincts are telling me that if she were free to do so, she would have let me continue."

"But are you absolutely certain, Vladislaus? It could very well be your psyche's way of dealing with the rejection," he offered.

"That's what I thought at first," Dracula continued, "but I've known women to say no and mean it, truly mean it. But when she said those things this morning…. This was different, Antón. I can't explain it – I lack the words to do it justice. If you could have seen her then, you would know." Dracula's attention wavered momentarily as he grew lost in his thoughts. "There's some secret she's keeping – some obstacle between us, and I'm certain it's not her betrothal to me. As I learned this evening, she's had no problem pushing that very legitimate reason to the wayside in order to pursue a dalliance."

"Is that jealousy I'm detecting?"

"I'm not jealous… just… a little insulted."

"That her involuntary betrothal to you hasn't hindered her from enjoying amorous relations with others? You do realize how hypocritical that is…"

"Of course I'm not surprised by that!" he insisted, finally taking the offered brandy. "We've discussed this before. The fact that she's experienced doesn't bother me. Meeting one of her lovers, on the other hand, especially when they clearly aren't over each other..." He laughed awkwardly after taking a drink. "I never expected one of them to be a werewolf prince."

Bernardini choked.

"A what?"

"My future wife has been in love with not just any dog, but with none other than the brother of her majesty, Queen Isabella. I suppose I should at least give her some credit for having standards," and he shrugged.

"You mean Tristan? That Tristan? Dark hair, scar mark on his left eyebrow, has the look of a cold-blooded killer about him?"

"And apparently a weak-spot for my future wife, yes."

"Seems your Miss Chase has a type," Bernardini said with a laugh and a knowing expression. Vladislaus visibly disliked the comparison but he made no comment on it. "Although, that's not wholly unsurprising. Many strong women tend to enjoy being dominated in the bedroom. But from what I've heard, it's usually Miss Chase that does the dominating. I wonder how she and Tristan made that work? He being an alpha, and alpha werewolves aren't exactly known for being submissive ever…."

"I would prefer not to imagine what their bedroom sessions were like, thank you."

"My apologies. I just find the dynamic fascinating, that's all."

"Fascinating or not, that story could create quite the scandal if it ever got out."

"What, that your future wife has a sexual history that doesn't include you? How archaic of you…" Bernardini replied behind a barely suppressed chuckle.

"It would bother me a lot less if she wasn't still pining for him. You should have seen them, Antón. I know for a fact that if she wasn't betrothed to me, nothing would be stopping them from picking up right where they left off."

"And this makes you feel insecure?"

Dracula shifted a bit in his chair, but offered no reply. His silence said enough, anyway.

"Is this werewolf going to be a problem?" Bernardini asked a little bit more seriously.

"I wish I knew."

"Do you believe she'd ever go back to him if given the chance?"

"I don't know," Dracula said with a sigh. "I barely understand this woman at all. When I first set out in search of her, I thought that this would be easy, that our paths would meet and that night in Venice would pick up where it had left off… but it hasn't turned out that way at all."

"It's been nearly four-hundred years, Vladislaus. A lot has happened since then. You've changed, and, I think it's safe to say she has as well. You're not the same people anymore."

"Evidently."

"Well, in the case of Tristan, at least you can be assured that you won't have to see him anymore," Bernardini offered optimistically. "Unless the werewolves declare a formal coalition with the alliance – which I doubt they'll be doing any time soon – you should be dog-free for the time being."

"If only that were the case. Turns out I will have to see him again in a couple of weeks."

"Why?"

"I made a deal with Isabella in exchange for the ceding of her daughter to Rémy."

There was a brief moment of silence.

"I promised to free Vivian from the palace dungeons and deliver her in person before the month is out."

Bernardini's hand collided with his forehead.

"Vladislaus, you didn't."

"I had no choice! It was the only means of leverage I had."

"Does Miss Chase know?"

"She was present when I made the arrangement. She was also asked to accompany me to make sure I kept my word."

"I remember Vivian – a very intelligent and charming woman; dabbled in the old-magic, too, if I recall. That concealment charm around your neck may not work so well with her as it has with the others."

"Believe me, I know – and the last thing I need is her revealing my true identity to Francesca before I can explain myself."

"Then you'll have to get to her before Miss Chase does," Bernardini pointed out.

"I'll think of something. I have time."

There was another moment of silence; only this one seemed to last for several minutes.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Bernardini inquired knowingly. When Dracula didn't answer, the Italian pressed further. "Vladislaus?"

There was a sigh, and then the truth:

"I had a dream about her the other night… about Francesca."

The two looked at one another and soon an expression of understanding washed over Bernardini.

"I see. What kind of dream?"

Dracula said nothing – only gave him a look and that seemed to speak volumes.

"Oh – that kind of dream."

"Yes."

"Is this the first one?"

"Yes."

Silence.

"Alright, actually, I've had several."

"You've had several?! You could have told me this earlier last night! Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because every time I awaken from these dreams, I tend to do so… well… you know… fully…"

"So Junior still stands, then?"

Dracula visibly cringed.

"Don't be juvenile; and yes, if you must know. Everything is in proper working order."

"At least that provides us with some concrete evidence regarding Miss Chase's role in the prophecy. How does all of this make you feel?"

"Now is not the time to go shrink on me."

"Actually, it's the perfect time to do so. Come now – we've been friends for centuries. There's nothing you haven't done that I haven't heard about… or walked in on by accident."

Dracula laughed.

"Yes, but any tales I did tell usually didn't tend to the explicit."

"True. But I know you want a second opinion on this or you wouldn't have mentioned it, so come out with it…" Vlad shifted a bit uncomfortably in his chair. "Our kind rarely ever dream, as you well know, which makes the ones we do have significant. You don't have to tell me everything – just enough. When did they start?"

"I had the first one a while ago," the man explained. "The details were vague and the dream was short. The second was similar, only a little more vivid; but this last one…"

"Describe it to me," Bernardini encouraged.

"Antón, this really isn't necessary. Shouldn't the fact that I'm dreaming about her in the first place be sufficient?"

"The dreams of nosferatu are always more than meets the eye, Vladislaus… yours especially."

"But it's so degrading."

"Why should it be degrading?"

"Because you know how rare it is for me to dream about sex," he exclaimed rather emphatically, clearly mortified by this entire situation. "I never have nocturnal fantasies. Every female I have ever known has never resisted me, let alone held my interest long enough to give me cause to dream in the first place. Francesca Chase has been the only exception to that rule – from Venice, to the three-hundred and seventy-four years since then, all the way up to the present. I feel like she has some inexplicable, supernatural hold on me and I hate not having control over myself. Especially in this way."

"My friend, don't agitate yourself," Bernardini replied evenly. Dracula huffed and leaned back roughly into his chair, hiding his face with his hand as he struggled to master himself. "Describe the dream."

"Antón…"

"Don't argue with me. You know how delicate this situation is and I know you want my help or you would not have brought it up in the first place."

There was another huff, and then a long sigh before Vlad finally relented.

"The dreams all start the same," he began a bit begrudgingly. "We're in Venice during the carnival season. She's just as I remembered her, except she's the only motionless figure amongst the other guests, and despite the noise and music, I can hear her beckoning me. I pursue her through the crowded room, down a number of halls. I follow her outside and we cross the piazza, but it's empty. She disappears behind a door and the first two times, it was when the door shut behind her that I would awaken."

"Do you remember what the door looked like? Any distinguishing features?"

"Nothing stood out, except there was a lion engraved into the brass of the handle."

"Is it at all similar to the mark Mariella gave you?"

"Yes – almost identical."

"That's interesting. So I assume that with these latest iterations of the dream, you've managed to pass through the door?"

He only nodded.

"And what's beyond it?"

"A room – small in size and dimly lit, to the point where I can only make out what appears to be an altar in the center of the chamber. It's draped in golden fur and she's seated upon its surface, hands reaching for me. She's unmasked, and as I move closer, I notice she has a mark similar to mine above her left breast, about an inch or so below the collarbone – but instead of a lion, hers is of a dragon."

"Your insignia?"

Another nod.

"Very intriguing. Does she have such a mark in real life?"

"Not that I've seen."

There was a noted pause in Dracula's tale and Benardini smiled knowingly.

"I assume this is where the more… intimate parts take place."

Dracula merely nodded, but his expression took on a more haunted look as he silently recalled that portion of the dream in his head – the gliding caress of flesh on flesh, of warmth, of pushes and moans… and pleasure. So much pleasure. And it wasn't just the feel of being buried deep inside of her. It was the way her thighs gripped his waist, holding her to him as his hips moved. It was in the sweeping caresses of her hands on his back, his arms, his shoulders – the bite of her nails in his skin, the way her tongue slid up the column of his throat before her lips sought out his in a series of searing kisses that threatened to set the world on fire. Everything about her, from the sound of her rapture to the way she clung to him as he fucked her into the altar… the way her whole body seemed to undulate, head craning back, fangs extended... as if the friction of his cock was enough to drive her out of her mind….

"What happens after all of that?"

The sound of Bernardini's voice shook Vladislaus from his private recollections and he shivered once, returning to himself.

"She feeds from me, and as she drinks, her person starts to emanate a strange light. There are these markings that I can't quite make out that appear on her skin and when I try to get a better look, what I can only describe as a demon interrupts us before I can get a proper look and then I awake."

"A demon?"

"I think so. It appears to be female, but I've never seen anything like her before. She had a resemblance to Lilith, actually, with the red hair, but that was all."

"So it wasn't our favorite queen of hell?"

"No – thankfully not her."

"Intriguing. Any other distinguishable features?"

"She had white eyes – if that means anything to you."

Antón puzzled in silence for a few moments, his eyes glued to the floor as he rubbed his cleanly shaven jaw methodically. He excused himself for a moment, exiting from the room only to return a short time later with a book in hand – in truth, a leather-bound journal. As he returned to his seat, he started to thumb through the pages.

"What is it?" Dracula couldn't help but ask.

"It could be nothing, but your demon with red hair and white eyes sparked a memory of mine… something Mariella had told me when she returned from a trip to America in 1830 – you remember? She said she was going to go visit a friend in New Orleans, but everything about it seemed awfully suspicious."

"I vaguely recall her taking the trip. What of it?"

"When she returned home, Marcus happened to overhear a private conversation we were having about a number of her recent visions, all pertaining to you, save one." Bernardini finally found the page he was looking for and he handed the book over to Dracula.

On one of the pages was a drawing of a shadowed figure that greatly resembled the creature he had seen in his dream – though Mariella hadn't been able to properly capture the aspects of the face, but the hair and feel of the caricature were all there.

"Mariella believed that your prophesied 'undying bride' would not be the only player in this game, but that she would also have a guardian with her, one who would possess the power to destroy Augustine once and for all: a white-eyed demon with hair of fire."

"And you think the demon from my dream is that guardian?"

"It's too great of a coincidence to ignore," Bernardini asserted. "Does Miss Chase have any friends that would fit the position?"

"One, though I know little about her. Her name is Lyra Kennedy. I could certainly see her being this supposed guardian, but outside of the similarities in appearance, she's just an ordinary vampire as far as I can tell."

"There may be more to her than what meets the eye."

"Does Marcus know the details of Mariella's vision?"

"Enough of them, yes – though I never caught wind of him doing anything about it. He never gave much credence to Mareilla's gifts."

"It makes me wonder, though… he may not have been outwardly invested in the notion, but I don't see him ignoring a threat on his existence, as ambiguous as it may have been."

"What are you saying?"

"Francesca mentioned earlier this morning that she and Lyra had met under the 'worst of circumstances', that both were altered in some way by a past run-in with Marcus. Now that I know Augustine has been aware of at least part of the prophecy for some time…"

Vlad paused, suddenly unable to finish the thought.

The mere suggestion of the path his mind was now on was far darker than he would have liked, but if his suspicions proved true...

Another thought came to mind as Dracula recalled the way Frankie had looked at him when she discovered that the Turks had tortured him as a young teen… and then the way in which she had so effectively extracted information out of Bartos that night several weeks ago. It was normal for many of the undead to be experienced in the ways of inflicting physical harm, of taking life, but Frankie had moved as if she knew exactly where and how to inflict the most pain.

A chill ran down Dracula's spine as the pieces slowly began to come together and the final result, though he admittedly had no real proof of it, did put Francesca in a very different light than she had previously been in.

Lyra's loyalty and sense of protection.

Rémy's determination to eliminate Augustine.

Francesca's inner conflict.

Could it all point back to Augustine?

Had Marcus gotten his hands on her, on both she and Lyra? Is that how the two women had met, why they had bonded?

The prospect was horrifying and the more Dracula mulled over the possibility in his mind, the more disturbed he became. It was admittedly a bit of an intellectual leap, but he could not shake the very real possibility that his "elder brother" had done something terrible to Francesca.

He was so lost in these ponderings, that he never realized that he had begun to squeeze the arm of his chair until Bernardini said his name with a bit of force to snap him out of his stupor. Dracula glanced up abruptly at the sound before immediately releasing the fractured wood in his hand and offering an apology.

"What was that about?" the Italian asked, concerned.

"Just a disturbing thought that my mind began to run a bit wild with," he said with what lightness he could muster, but Bernardini was not so easily dismissed.

"What kind of thought?"

"The kind that has me believing Marcus' hatred runs far deeper than I ever initially believed it to," and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he covered his face momentarily. "How could I have been so blind, Antón? Why did I not see it before?"

"See what? What do you think Marcus has done?"

Well, seems like Dracula still has a bit more processing to do, some important decisions to make.

Friday's update will be another Dracul Sânge interview (if the ending of last Friday's chapter didn't already make that kind of obvious). We'll also get a little bit more of a looksie inside Frankie's head and why the woman is such a conflicted disaster.

In the meantime, though... REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! :)