Eternal Night (I) Chapter 39: Revelation, a van helsing fanfic

Many thanks to Scarlet Empress, She-Devil Red, mystery of NC, inkmagpie, MsIndulgence, Arwen17evenstar, and Jazlynn Dark for the reviews over this last weekend!

CW: some minor sexual content - nothing too explicit

Chapter 39
Revelation

Nosferatu rarely dreamed, which is why Frankie understood that the visions passing before her mind's eye were merely figments of her imagination, mingled with memories of an age long since passed. It had been three and a half centuries since that night, yet how amazed she was that her brain was able to so easily conjure the details of the evening – the dancers, the music, the scent of the canal wafting through the air.

She knew this scene – knew it well, though she hadn't thought on it in years. She was dreaming of Venice. The year – 1763. The night she had first met the dragon.

Frankie walked undetected through the dreamscape for some time, finding her brother, her cousin, a couple of old friends. But the scene that proved the most captivating to her was the one that caught her attention from across the dance floor. There she was, donning a stunning dark indigo blue gown, dancing with none other than Vladislaus Drăculea himself.

She watched as he – with her hand in his – took a few steps backwards, drawing her back to him for another dance. There had been a certain grace to the dip of his wrist, an elegance to the way he supported her fingers in the valley of his palm – restrained, almost reverential. It had made her feel special.

Everything he had done that night had made her feel special.

Frankie observed from the sidelines as they danced their final number together – the allemande – a beautiful sensuality to their movements that she had never really taken the time to appreciate before. He whirled her through the dancers, her steps matching his as if they had been partnered for years, centuries, even – an ideal companion.

Her soul's perfect match.

But why then did she run from him when the dance was done?

The recollection was clear as she watched herself dash across the room before vanishing in the shadows, the man chasing after her.

She had been afraid… afraid of what he made her feel.

The Frankie of old had been quite different from the woman she was now, and yet how strange it was that those feelings were very much the same as they had ever been.

She followed her memory of Vladislaus through the dreamscape like a shadow, witnessing the way he called out the false name she had given him, how he searched with a genuine sense of frantic desperation and it made her wonder – had he felt it too?

The longing, that inexplicable pull, that aching in his soul…

She certainly had that night and it had terrified her.

For twenty years up until that evening, her maker and tutor, Eduardo de Meirás, had managed to instill in her an unquenchable need for utter dominance over all. He had molded her into the ultimate femme fatale, nurturing her sense of independence and control and it had become her armor.

But after a mere handful of dances with Dracula, she had found herself questioning everything.

Which is why, as Frankie witnessed once more in the dreamscape, she had emerged from the shadows of her hiding place to pursue the man who had so effortlessly disarmed her. She had needed to be sure that what she had felt wasn't her imagination. As she observed the memory of their first and only kiss, those feelings were confirmed then just as they were now. That uncertainty, that fear of relinquishing control – of losing her armor, the way he so effortlessly stripped it from her with every whisper and caress and bold taste of tongue.

Frankie recognized that feeling in her, remembered it with sudden clarity – how torn she had been then… and how reminiscent it was of how torn she had been these last few months. Like a frightened rabbit in a desperate need to escape a wolf, she had run from Dracula once again that evening, this time for good – leaving him unconscious in the night.

Knowing what she did now of the prophecy, of all she would endure in the centuries to come, she watched with disappointment as the apparition of her younger self, the memory, surrendered to fear instead of taking that leap of faith, disappearing back into the shadows. Frankie half expected the dream to end, but instead it continued.

Rather than following the vision of herself as she escaped via carriage from the revelry and into the city before the jilted king could awaken, her conscious-self lingered by the man's side, watching as he lied there, motionless and alone.

"Did you honestly think I wouldn't find you?" an unseen specter asked from behind.

Frankie didn't need to turn to know who the owner of the voice was. The electricity in the air at his very presence was enough of an indication.

"I thought you had given up," she confessed, still studying the lifeless Dracula on the pavement, a heap of cloak and mask.

"I never stopped thinking about you," the shadowed visitor confessed, closer to her back than he had been before and she could almost feel him reaching for her. "For centuries, you've haunted me – the one that got away."

"Why didn't you look for me?"

"I assumed that if you wanted to be found, you would have left me a clue." She felt the weight of his hands as they suddenly rested on her shoulders, his very touch sending the flimsy material of the simple shift of shadow and mist she was wearing to dissolve to ash where his hands resided.

His touch felt warm.

Safe.

She didn't pull away.

"But I had left you a clue – the play, remember?" she said, struggling to resist the urge to turn her head and look back at him, even as those hands moved down her arms in one slow sweep, the material of her sleeves melting away beneath his palms.

"Le Triomphe de l'amour. You were the princess Léonide, and I, your Agis – the rightful heir to a throne that only you could restore me to."

"Ironic, don't you think?" she inquired listlessly when she felt the tip of his nose in her hair, lips a hair's breath away from the skin of her neck. "As if my subconscious knew what neither of us did at the time…"

"That we were destined for each other," he finished, hands now resting on her hips before his arms coiled around her waist, bringing her to him more fully. The scene of Venice began to melt away into obscurity until it was only she and the dark king behind her, standing alone in the black, but she did not fear him. "And yet, I still sense doubt in you."

"I have so many questions, so many fears… is what I'm feeling true or have I unwittingly become a puppet to the will of fate? Am I being manipulated? What am I even feeling? Could I do this… take that step into the fire and surrender to you? Would doing so grant me rebirth or would you simply burn me up? – And that's a mere scratch upon the surface. I've begrudged you for so long," she said with a sigh as his cleanly shaven cheek pressed against hers, arms still coiled around her. "I've blamed you for what Augustine did to me, hated you for what others said you were, but what if I was wrong? What if I was right?"

"You only knew me for barely an hour. It is very possible that your first impression of me was a false one. I could have been deceiving you from the start. I am the son of the devil, after all."

"But that is merely a title – it is not who you are. It can't be…"

"What does your heart tell you, comoara mea?" he whispered, hands now moving slowly up her front, smoothing over the valley of her abdomen, inching torturously closer to the swells of her breasts, the flesh aching for his touch.

"I don't know…"

"Don't lie to me, dragă," he purred in her ear, taking her bosom in both of his hands and gently squeezing the soft mounds, even as the remainder of her garb vanished into nothingness. "You know who I am… you've sensed it for months now. No more denial. It's time to acknowledge the truth for what it is," and he nibbled the lobe of her ear once before releasing her suddenly from his hold.

The absence of his touch left her soul aching in ways she never imagined possible, her flesh cold without his nearness. The Frankie of the realm of reality would have fought him, would have played and teased, yet in her dreams she could not bring herself to do so. Only in her dreams did she ever feel truly safe enough to be vulnerable – enough so to admit the truth.

That she needed him… needed the fire he ignited in her, even if she risked utter destruction by letting it consume her.

Frankie turned slowly to face the man behind her, not at all surprised to discover the Dracula of memory, masked and donning the costume he had worn that night at the Venetian ball. He held out his hands in a beckoning manner, arms outstretched.

"Come, my queen… come and see…" he said.

Frankie felt a knot of hesitation well up inside of her, even as her fingers itched. But she had to know for herself... she had to know the truth.

And so she reached out for his mask, fingers curling behind the top part and with a gentle tug, the ribbon that kept it tied gave way and it fell from his face revealing none other than Vlad Leinhart.

Was this her subconscious mind experiencing a moment of wishful thinking, or was this the truth? She could hardly be certain – that is, until she recalled the events of just hours before she had entered this dream.

The familiarity of his kisses.

The way his touch so effortlessly undid her.

The charm of concealment he wore around his neck.

And then there was the scar on his chest, hidden behind his shirt. She had only seen a flash of it for a few seconds at most, but now, as Dracula began undressing slowly before her eyes, she could see it again, more fully this time.

It was the lion of the de Chaciers. A symbol found on her family's crest. It was located in the same place that her own mark was positioned and she absently reached up to brush her fingers against the Drăculea insignia beneath her collarbone at the top of her breast – the symbol of the dragon.

They had been branded, the two of them – not as chattel, but marked so they could find one another; and here they were now, face to face in a dream, naked, exposed – equals, and with nothing more to hide.

"How can this be?" she asked him, lightly tracing the lion on his flesh.

"I am already yours," he said, reaching out to touch her face. "And one day soon, iubito, you will be mine."

The moment the words were uttered, they fell into each other's arms and into a series of kisses that sent the whole world around them ablaze. The flames licked the flesh of her feet and legs, the heat rising up into the air around her, yet all she felt was pleasure, his body against hers, flesh to flesh, soul to soul, her mind a haze, his kisses dizzying.

As they had in the dreams she had had in the last couple of months, they ended up lying in the fire itself, her body beneath his, his every touch and kiss and caress awakening a painful ache inside of her, a need to be filled. And fill her he did. With a single thrust of hips into her beckoning softness, he invaded her, and Frankie's entire body seemed to rise in response to the bliss. He felt like heaven between her trembling thighs, the way he moved and worked within her was something that could only be described as a taste of the divine.

She didn't care that Leinhart and Dracula were one in the same.

If anything, it made perfect sense – the mystery, the attraction, the way they both seemed incapable of staying away from one another, no matter how hard the other tried to put distance between them.

Any questions or concerns her rational mind would have had were effectively silenced as the joining of their flesh healed and filled the hollowed parts of her pain-ridden soul. This is what she had been missing, what she had been searching for all her life. This is where she belonged, naked and quivering in delight beneath him, a part of him – forever.

But, as it so often did, her dreams of paradise gradually shifted into nightmare.

There was a shadow in the distance, moving through the fire unscathed, and she recognized his face immediately as her entire being suddenly filled with dread.

Marcus Augustine.

His flesh was stained in Hell's blood – a burning pitch that he wore like a robe, the ends staining the path behind him with smears of sticky, insidious black. The droplets that fell from his body seemed to take on a life of their own – slithering behind him like horde of venomous serpents.

Though fear consumed her, Dracula remained blissfully unaware of their visitor, even as Marcus fell to his knees at their side, observing the coupling with unnerving amusement.

"Have you forgotten so soon?" he asked Frankie. "What you dream can never be. Remember? I've already taken it from you."

"No! No please! Don't touch me! Stay away!" she shouted at him, but Augustine ignored her, extending a soaked hand until he reached one of her breasts. With a single finger, he caressed the dragon-shaped brand on her flesh and the contact immediately left her stained. The tar burned as it seeped into the scar, darkening its naturally pale color before spreading slowly through her veins like some foul venom, overriding her system, poisoning her.

"You and your precious king will never be together," he reminded her. "Your union will only bring about his destruction."

And with his words, Dracula cried out his orgasm as he came within her, fangs lengthening, irises glowing a brilliant blue. Frankie screamed the word "no" in protest when he instinctually let his head fall to the poisoned vein at her neck. And then he bit down.

Augustine's maniacal laughter filled the air and her head as Dracula drank fully from her before pulling back abruptly in horror as he shouted, her blood that had smeared on his face and slid down his throat causing his very flesh and bone to dissolve before her eyes. Frankie sobbed in horror as she watched Vlad wither away into nothingness, despite her protests for it to stop, despite her pleas to a deaf god to save him, to save her.

But no one came to her rescue.

She was left naked, covered in the blackened blood and ash of the dragon's remains until the fire consumed her, at long last burning her alive. Marcus Augustine's sounds of elation deepened, darkened, echoing around her and before her very person had disappeared to ash and flame, it was as if he had transformed into the devil himself.

Frankie awoke with a start when the dream had ended, tears streaming down her cheeks as she sat up in her bed, the sound of her own cries having awoken her. Her bedroom was dark and the apartment empty – thankfully, for the last thing she wanted was to worry her brother. But Carmen had been gracious enough to allow Rémy to stay the day to recover at her place, and so Frankie had returned that morning alone.

And how she felt it now.

The chill of her room was pronounced as she hugged herself for a moment in an effort to soothe her troubled mind, but nothing she did or told herself could shake the sense of dread that had settled like a stone in her heart.

So there was a chance that Mr. Leinhart was actually Dracula.

She had no real proof, but the longer she pondered the very real possibility, the more it made sense in her mind.

His occasional inconsistency of character, the way he always seemed to come back or stick around whenever she tried to push him away – as if he felt it too, that inexplicable, almost supernatural pull – his mysterious backstory and overall sense of privacy, the concealment charm he wore hidden beneath his shirt, the random bouts of déjà vu she experienced when they spoke… how familiar their kisses the night before had felt.

But how could this be?

How had she not seen the signs before?

As her mind struggled to make sense of the revelation, she found herself getting out of bed and dressing without even realizing she was doing so. Upon her arrival home, she had discovered a note from Jack Belinskaya in her mailbox with an address for Antón Bernardini.

Well, if anyone could answer her questions about Leinhart and Dracula, it would be the Signore.

Frankie arrived at the home of Antón Bernardini an hour or so before sundown. It was abnormal for a vampire to make house calls at such a time, and even a little rude to disturb the rest of another, especially without making any prior arrangements. But she was a woman on a mission in need of answers.

She was relieved, then, to find that upon the second knock at the man's door, he opened it as if he had already been up, though it was evident by his expression that he was surprised to see her there. Had he been anticipating the arrival of someone else?

"Miss Chase? What an unexpected treat!"

"Good afternoon, Signore Bernardini. I apologize for the hour. I hope I have not disturbed your rest?"

"Not at all, my dear. You'll find I don't sleep much these days."

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"No. In fact, why don't you come in? I was just about to make some tea – old habits and all. I'd be honored if you joined me."

"I'd love to," and she crossed the threshold of his front door with care, taking in her surroundings before making her way into the main part of the house. "Do you live here alone, Signore?"

"Yes," he answered, silently offering to take her coat. "And please, call me Antón. There's no need to stand on ceremony here."

"I hope you can forgive me for the intrusion. I normally don't pay personal visits without at least giving some warning first."

"Don't let it trouble you, my dear. I'm happy to have you, and could use the company. Come – the tea is in my study," and he led her down the darkened hall and into the warmly lit room where she was encouraged to take a seat in a chair by the fire. "So what brings you to this part of town?"

"To own the truth, I hardly know. I had recalled your previous invitation and found myself this afternoon in need of a fresh perspective on something and I figured there was no time quite like the present to meet with you again."

"Well, I'm flattered you thought of me at all," he answered cheerfully as he prepared the tea tray before bringing it over to the small table in front of her. "How is my friend, Vlad Leinhart? Hopefully staying out of trouble."

Frankie stiffened a little at the sound of his name, and though the reaction was subtle, Bernardini noticed it immediately.

"He is well, I suppose," she replied calmly. "Although now that you mention him, it was actually the matter of Mr. Leinhart that I wished to discuss with you."

Now it was Bernardini's turn to go a bit rigid, but he hid his surprise better than Frankie had.

"What about him?"

"We've been acquainted for some months now, and yet I still feel as though I hardly know him. I was hoping you could help shed some light on a few questions I had concerning his person and perhaps his history – if you don't mind?"

"I will try to help where I can," the man explained, though the promise was delivered with a noted degree of hesitation. "But Vlad can be a very complicated and private man. If you have questions, perhaps you should take them to him directly?"

Frankie knew he was right, but she would not be deterred.

"How long have you known him?" she asked, nodding her head in gratitude when he handed her a cup of tea before taking his seat in the twin chair across from her.

"For some years," was his reply. "Dracula introduced us shortly after I was turned."

"If I recall correctly, it was his majesty who turned you – am I right?"

"Yes. Dracula was my sire."

"As well as Mr. Leinhart's?"

"I believe so, yes," he answered a little suspiciously.

"About how long have the two known one another? Mr. Leinhart – Vlad," she corrected suddenly, "he said that he was turned the same year as his majesty, yet I was always under the impression that pretty much all of the vampires that were made within that first decade had since perished."

"Not all, I suppose. The Knights of the Holy Order proved quite the scourge for a good many years, and while they were often very thorough in their eradication of nests, clans, and entire bloodlines, they did occasionally miss a person or two. I believe Leinhart was one of the fortunate ones who survived."

"Are he and Dracula close?"

"In some respects, I suppose. Miss Chase – forgive me, but to what end to these questions tend?"

"The other evening, Vlad had been telling me a bit about his history and he mentioned that he had been married twice as a mortal – both times were politically motivated. The first, a betrothal arranged by his father, and the second by a local ruler. Did that ruler happen to be Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary?"

Bernardini was wise to remain silent, allowing Frankie to draw the preceding connections on her own and he listened carefully to all that she said, but – more importantly – to all that she did not.

"If memory serves, I believe Dracula had a similar experience in marrying Corvinus' cousin, the princess consort of Wallachia - Ilona Szilágyi. Vlad also described how he had been mortally wounded in battle, that before he died he was granted a choice between immortality and death – just like Dracula was. Then there's the fact that he appeared shortly after Dracula had been declared missing from the palace a few months ago, and he seems to know things that only someone like Dracula would know. His understanding of confraternities and chivalric orders like the Order of the Dragon seem to be of a personal nature; then there's the way he knew about Vivian's imprisonment, what cell she was located in, how to get in there undetected, his history and understanding of the werewolves in general – his association with a woman named Lilith, who I assume is actually Lilith, the queen of Hell – and not only that, but his maker as well, if the rumors are indeed true."

Frankie went on like this for several minutes, having since abandoned her cup of tea as the veil of deceit was pulled back from her eyes, the stark truth gradually being laid before her. By the end of it, the woman was gripping the ends of the armrests, knuckles white as she at last fell silent, staring at nothing in particular as her brain frantically made the connections she had been blind to for months now.

And it was made abundantly clear by the Italian's silence that her assumptions were accurate.

At last, her gaze found his, her eyes searching his face for some kind of hint or suggestion that she was completely and totally off base. However, his countenance only seemed to confirm her suspicions.

Frankie knew the question she needed to ask next, but she was almost afraid to give it utterance. Doing so would make it real and she wasn't sure she was ready for that. Her tongue, however, had different plans and when she spoke, her voice came out in almost a whisper.

"Vlad Leinhart isn't Vlad Leinhart at all, is he?" she asked him. "He's… he's Dracula."

Bernardini said nothing, but the subtle change in his expression was answer enough and the shock that overcame the woman did not overpower her in the way she had anticipated, though it was still very present. Leaning back into her chair, her hand hovered over her mouth in a contradicting mixture of distress and relief.

"Are you quite well, Miss Chase?" the man asked at last, having allowed the truth to linger in the air for long enough.

"I hardly know," she said in hushed tones, mind evidently still racing.

"Might I ask what you plan to do with the… the information you have just acquired?"

Frankie looked back at the man with evident curiosity.

What an odd thing to ask, she thought to herself.

Was he worried she would go about telling everyone in the city that Leinhart and Dracula were one in the same? That she would reveal his true identity to the world? But she couldn't do that, even if she had wanted to – for in doing so, she would then have to reveal who she truly was and she did not need another target on her back. Augustine had no idea that she was even still alive, let alone hiding right under his nose and it needed to stay that way.

No – she couldn't tell anyone of what she knew. Not only for her own sake, but her brother's, her friends'… and even Dracula's as well. It wasn't likely that anyone would believe her anyway.

"Nothing at the present moment," she said at last. "Little good would come from such a revelation, I fear."

"Why do you say that?"

"You are the husband of Mariella Bernardini. I am quite certain that you know who I really am."

His smile was a little more rueful than she had anticipated.

"I've had my suspicions..."

"Forgive me for my candor, but I'm certain that what you hold is far greater than a mere hunch. How long have you known?"

He never shrank in the face of her bluntness. If anything, he seemed rather pleased by it.

"A while," was all he said.

"Did she tell you?"

Bernardini only nodded.

"And does Mr. Lein… I mean, does Dracula share your understanding?"

"You will have to ask him that yourself, my dear. I fear there is much I haven't told him."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons. But the man has enough to concern himself with. The fewer distractions he has, the better."

"Does he know that the Dracul Sânge still live? That we've been in touch with one another? That it was you who initiated the introductions? It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes it was, but no, I have not informed him of that, and for good reason."

"But they're his children!" Frankie replied, offended on Vlad's behalf. It was a reaction that secretly both surprised and pleased the man seated before her. "What reason could you possibly have that would justify keeping that kind of secret? You mean to tell me that he still thinks they're dead?!"

"You have only known Vladislaus for a short time, Miss Chase. I have known him for most of my life. If he were to discover that his blood-bound children were not dead, that it was in fact Augustine who was the architect surrounding their 'demise' in the first place, he would become unhinged. I've never seen him care for anyone the way he does his children and when he believed them gone, he was inconsolable, absolutely consumed with rage and grief. It nearly drove him to madness. It took months to bring him back to reason and nearly forty years of hibernation to calm him. To awaken that rage in him again would be not only catastrophic, it would be entirely negligent."

"That seems a bit much..."

"There are two things you must understand about Dracula, my dear – the first is that he takes his duties as ruler over our kind very seriously. Most of what he does is for the benefit of our species and he has sacrificed much of himself in the last centuries for our betterment and safety – including his own reputation. Do I always agree with his methods? Of course not. But no one… no one can question his results. The second is that the only thing to ever overrule that sense of obligation has been his bond with his children. It is a… a side-effect, if you will, of being blood-bound to another vampire, which is why you don't see much of it in the world today."

"That still doesn't explain why revealing that Jack and Zeke and Louise and the others are still alive…" but he interrupted her.

"If he learned the truth now, the only thing on his mind would be revenge for what had been done to them. It would literally consume him, and in his pursuit of that vengeance, all of us would be caught in the line of fire between him and Marcus."

"Is he really so single-minded? Surely he would see reason if the circumstances were explained…"

"Perhaps, but given the state of things and other dangers involved that Jack and the others have clearly not been explained to you yet, I cannot take that risk," Bernardini insisted. "Especially not after what happened to Alessia."

Frankie's brow furrowed.

"Who?"

"You mean they haven't told you that either?" he inquired with genuine surprise. When it became evident that she was unable to follow his train of thought, he explained. "Louise and Tempest were not the only daughters Vladislaus sired. He had another – Alessia Montero; an angel, really, and one of his favorites – although he's always insisted that he's never had a favorite child. But oh, how that girl could light up a room," and Bernardini smiled at the memory until his recollections took a dark turn and the joy in his expression fell.

"The latter half of the nineteenth century was a trying one for all of us," Antón explained. "With the constant threat of Rome at our doorstep, not to mention the political dissension that was starting to spread through the various clans and bloodlines… the tensions between himself and Marcus only ever seemed to be escalating as their ideologies continued to clash."

"So what happened?"

"Before Vladislaus had gotten it into his head to make Niklaus part of the family, Alessia had been killed – an accident, but it was a fatal one. As Marcus Augustine is unable to create fledglings of his own, some centuries ago, Dracula had gifted him with a son as a sign of good faith – Mathis was his name. But the boy was headstrong and self-important and Marcus did nothing to curb his ambition. Vladislaus endured Mathis' open questioning of his authority for decades. He even spared the boy after he had attempted to organize a coup – unsuccessfully of course. But when he had attacked Alessia… that was the final straw."

"How did she die?"

"It was barely a year before Niklaus was turned if memory serves. Alessia was one of the only people who could appeal to Mathis' lingering humanity, but one evening, not even she could get through to him. He and Vladislaus were arguing, a usual occurrence during a family council. But when she tried to play the peacemaker and soothe Mathis' temper, he struck her. Only when her body landed, one of the larger splinters of the table she had crashed into had impaled her, staking her through the heart. It was an accident, but there was nothing we could do to save her. All we could do was watch as she withered away in Vladislaus' arms. When one is bound by blood to another, their meeting of the true death is excruciating to the surviving party – like having a piece of your soul, the very fabric of your being, torn out of you. When he lost Alessia, he was beyond reason."

Frankie could feel the knots in her stomach tightening as Bernardini shared his story. The collective memories of Jack, Zeke, and Louise that she had recently absorbed suddenly started to surface, connecting the dots until she was able to recall the outcome they had all witnessed upon the death of their sister.

"He killed Mathis," she stated softly and Bernardini nodded in confirmation.

"And he made Marcus watch. They were never the same after that – naturally. And it was the final straw for Marcus, because he departed from Vladislaus' court for several decades after that and few can account for his whereabouts during that time."

"I can account for them," Frankie said, voice trembling a little as her brain made more links between the fragmented timelines and suddenly it all started to make sense as the bigger picture was unveiled in her mind's eye – the connections between her own memories and the memories of the Dracul Sânge.

"Can you?" Bernardini inquired carefully and the woman nodded once.

"That is to say – I can only speak for a portion of his whereabouts – during the second world war."

"Vladislaus had mentioned that your path had crossed with Marcus' at some point, but he was unable to provide any details."

Frankie did not satisfy Bernardini's blatant curiosity right away. Instead, she looked down at the hands folded neatly in her lap, expression glossed over in memory – memories that were clearly unpleasant, for as she continued to linger in the silence, those lines of distress began to deepen her brow.

"Signore Bernardini – did Augustine know of your wife's prophecy at the time of his departure?"

"He was aware of it in the general sense, yes – a number of us were. But I can't confirm if he knew all of the particulars. None of us knew who you actually were, save Mariella. She kept your identity to herself, saying the time wasn't right for you and Vladislaus to meet again. Why do you ask?"

Frankie blanched a little.

"So she… she really didn't tell him."

It was more a statement than a question and it left something to settle uncomfortably in the Italian's gut.

"No. She knew better than to trust Marcus with that kind of information." He watched as the woman covered her mouth a little with the tips of her fingers, tears starting to well near her lower lash line. "Miss Chase… Francesca…" But she never responded, eyes glued to nothing in particular, expression filling with a kind of horror that he knew all too well.

It took the woman several long moments before she could answer his initial question, finally braving his gaze.

"Marcus Augustine somehow discovered not only who I was, but where he could find me," she said, voice barely a whisper. "He knew, and in revenge for what Dracula did to his son, he murdered my mother and father and kept me as his prisoner for five years. But I lost so much more than my parents to him, Signore… more than you could possibly understand."

Bernardini's expression was one of complete, unadulterated empathy, but the look in Frankie's eyes rattled him unexpectedly.

"What did he do to you, child?" he asked with great concern as the air in the room filled with a tense kind of sadness.

Without uttering a word, she stood and took his hand in hers. She then proceeded to prick the tip of her finger with one of her pointed nails, holding the wound over his palm. The Italian watched with interest as the blood droplet began to swell until it became too heavy to withstand the force of gravity and in a single instant it fell from her finger and landed on his skin.

The effect was immediate.

A sensation of heat followed by a searing pain and the stench of burnt flesh.

Bernardini went to recoil his hand to wipe the blood instinctually away, but Frankie held his wrist firmly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched her blood begin to destroy the flesh on Antón's hand – first the layers of skin, then the muscle.

Before it could reach bone, Frankie allowed her nails to extend into the sharp talons and with a quick flick of her wrist she was able to cut the infected flesh from his palm, tossing it into the fire. When his hand began to heal, the woman finally released him.

"Augustine took great pains to make sure that my union to Dracula could never take place," she explained after the man's shock began to dissipate. "So you see – I will never be his undying bride, I will never be blood-bound to him – or to any other man – and your wife's prophecy will never be fulfilled. By removing me from the equation, Augustine has secured his existence in the world. He cannot be destroyed – not now or ever."

Bernardini said nothing as she spoke, ever remaining the attentive listener, watching as more tears began to pool in her eyes.

"And that's what makes all of this so terribly unfair," she continued. "Because before I met Vlad, it was so easy to hate him for what Augustine did to me, to despise your wife for tracking me down and branding me like I was some object to be claimed and possessed. But I can't hate either of them like I used to, least of all Vlad. In knowing Mr. Leinhart, I have come to know Vladislaus, and in knowing his children, I have come to know Dracula – not only as he was and is, but as he could be, and I… I used to be so opposed to the entire notion of belonging to this man, but I cannot deny that a part of me has come to long for it more than anything in all the world. It terrifies me, and yet… there's something about him that just makes sense. But I also have no idea if what I feel is genuine or if it's just the prophecy manipulating my emotions. Not that any of it matters anyway. I'm so tired of pouring my soul into something that is doomed to fail from the start. Even if I wanted to, he and I could never be. I cannot give him hope where there is none. It would be unfair to not only him, but to myself as well."

Antón stood from his chair, gently taking her chin in his good hand so he could raise her eyes to his.

"Do not be so quick to lose faith," he urged her. "My Mariella's visions have always had a way of being realized in their fullness. There may still be hope for you, yet," and he wiped the trails of her tears from her cheeks with the back of his fingers. She smiled ruefully.

"I appreciate your faith, Signore," she said, "but I fear it is impossible. There is no cure for what ails me. And even if by some miracle there was, I am not worthy of such happiness. I resigned myself to the fact a long time ago that I would live out my days alone."

"You can't know that for certain."

"But I do know it," she insisted, carefully removing his hand from her face. "For the sake of Vlad and his people, for the sake of all of us, this is how it must be. I could not live with myself if our union only led to his demise. I will not take that risk. He deserves a woman that is whole… not this broken thing that I am."

Bernardini opened his mouth to argue, but she silenced him with a single look and his shoulders fell in defeat. His chest cracked at the sight of her – so without hope.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"What I must," was the only answer she offered, voice breaking with emotion. "Though I wish there was some other way."

"Miss Chase…"

"Before I depart, I must request that you keep our meeting and what we have discussed to yourself."

"Why?"

"Because Vlad must not know what I am, or that I know who he is. I fear that such a revelation at this time would cause more harm than good."

"That makes no sense…"

"You must promise me, Antón."

It was clear that Benardini wished to argue, but with a sigh of disapproval he relented.

"If that is what you wish, then I will not tell him who you are – though I think you are making a terrible mistake. Forgive me for my candor, but the condition of your blood, along with any other reservations you may hold – no matter how valid they may be – they may prove to be fair excuses, but they remain just that – excuses. I can sympathize with your fears, my dear, but running away will not solve your problems. You and Vladislaus are destined for one another and the harder you fight against that…"

"You have made your point, Signore, and while I respect your opinion, I do not share it," she answered flatly. It was evident her armor was back on – Bernardini recognized the look. He had seen Vladislaus wear it a thousand times before and experience had taught him that in moments such as these, argument was fruitless.

"Very well."

"I fear I must take my leave. The sun will be setting soon and I need to check in on my brother."

"I hope all is well with him."

"The man is over four-centuries old and still he thinks he is beyond limitation," she answered with a forced chuckle in an attempt to lighten the tension, but it only seemed to break the Italian's heart.

"Some never grow out of that mindset," Bernardini replied with a knowing look, though Frankie was clearly determined to ignore it.

"Thank you again for indulging my unannounced visit… and for the tea."

"It was my pleasure."

"I'm not sure when we'll meet again."

"My door is always open to you, Francesca Chase. If you should ever want for anything – company or just someone to listen – I would happily oblige you, no matter the hour."

Frankie smiled.

"I am not deserving of such kindness… especially yours."

Bernardini reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, holding her eyes with a kind of earnestness that took her aback.

"Yes you are," he whispered.

"If you only knew…"

"But I do know," he interjected and at his words her mask slipped, lip quivering faintly. "And I do not blame you. I never did, and neither did she." Frankie shuddered at his words, clearly struggling to withhold the tears pricking her eyes.

"Thank you, Signore. That means more to me than you could ever know."

"We have all lost so much at the hand of Marcus, my dear. I beg you to reconsider this course you are about to take…"

But instead of heeding his words, Frankie gently removed her hand from his, allowing it to fall to her side, shoulders slumped in resignation.

"I'm afraid there is no other way," she whispered. "I only hope he can forgive me someday."

I can already hear a number of you collectively losing your shit right now, and I get it. I do. I'll address this more in the next update's A/N because fallout is coming, but for now - just take a deep breath and trust that I know what I'm doing.

See you guys in the next one!