Eternal Night (II) Chapter 24: Genesis of the Vampire, a van helsing fanfic

Important Influence Note: the Fabulae Diablo and Brother Matthew were blatantly inspired by the show Penny Dreadful. Naturally, I changed things to make it more my own, but the influence is definitely there and I openly acknowledge that. Please don't sue.

CW: I'm hella mean to my babies in this one, but I do this because I must. I'll make it up to them later, I promise. Nothing worth having ever comes for free.

Chapter 24
Genesis of the Vampire

Fortunately, there was a break in the storm that lasted just long enough for Frankie and Vlad to dash across the estate and back to house before the heavy rains set in once more. A little damp but by no means soaked through, the pair proceeded to make their way through the conservatory using the garden entrance with Vladislaus leading the way. Frankie was grateful that their journey to the library remained undisturbed, and from the looks of things, the destination itself appeared empty.

Dracula paused for just a moment, eyes quickly scanning the space as if to ensure they were alone before making his way over to the computer where he could access the catalog.

"Have you ever heard of the Fabulae Diablo?" he asked her, the first words he had uttered since they had left the basement of the old house.

Frankie looked over at him with a peculiar expression, immediately translating the Latin words in her head.

"The Story of the Devil?" she clarified. "Are you referring to something specific or are we talking about the general fall of Lucifer?"

"Something a bit more specific than canonical Christian mythology," Vlad explained, now scrolling through the results page on the monitor before him, clearly in search of a particular text. "In the 16th century, an Italian monk, known only as Brother Matthew, began to lose his mind rather inexplicably – ramblings, speaking in tongues, writing bizarre and – at the time – what was believed to be unintelligible text over walls, on the pages of the scriptures. Anything he could get his hands on. The story goes that he had been possessed by a demon – perhaps even the mother of all demons," and he sent her a meaningful look.

"You mean Lilith."

He nodded once, returning his attention to the screen for just a moment as he continued.

"His brothers assumed him mad and locked him away. They found him dead in his cell the following morning. No one had entered or left the compartment and according to the monastery's records, they wrote off his passing as a suicide."

"By what means?"

"Loss of blood."

"You mean he slit his wrists?" she asked, watching as he materialized to the second floor of the library to retrieve a book. "How on earth did he acquire an instrument sharp enough if he was being confined?"

"I never said they had confirmed it was suicide."

The way he spoke the words sent a shiver down her spine.

"The assumption was that he had snuck in something sharp when he had been displaced, though what makes it all the more curious is no such object was never discovered," he continued. "And he couldn't have used his nails because they had been bitten down to the nub."

"So what was it?"

"They discovered mass amounts of text and pictographs that had been carved into his skin, over every inch of his body – even the hard to reach places, like the back. And the direction of the writing was such that suggested someone else had done the carving."

"What?"

"And his blood had been used to write even more all over the walls, the floor… even the ceiling – which was well over 10 feet high, and the man himself was reputably short."

Francesca muttered an oath in her mother tongue.

"The brothers of the monastery were unable to translate the text, but miraculously someone had had the foresight to at least copy what appeared on Brother Matthew's flesh before his remains were cremated and the room sanitized." Vlad handed her the tome he had retrieved before heading into the family archives, motioning with his finger for her to follow. She did so, studying the pages before her as they went along.

"What language is this in? It looks rather archaic."

"It's evidently a subset of Sumerian, or some kind of deviation of it. Because there are so many aberrations from the language as most historians understand it, it's made it difficult to translate, let alone read."

"Why on earth would my uncle have this book?"

"The transcript in front of you is part of a larger body of work which comes pretty standard in the houses of vampire aristocracy. When filling his shelves, your uncle probably referred to a recommended list or catalogue and it happened to be included."

Vlad turned on the projector in the archive room before he began fiddling with the tablet that had been charging on one of the shelves. With a few clicks, the projection on the wall acted as a second screen and he dragged over a video-chat app window to the additional display. Frankie watched as he began to type in a phone number.

"Are you able to read this text?"

"Me? No," Dracula laughed as he pressed the call button on the touch-screen. "But fortunately for us, I know someone who has read it before."

"Who?"

The projection on the wall changed from the desktop of the touch screen to a video projection of none other than Antón Bernardini, the surprised Italian sending the camera on his laptop a strange look.

"Vladislaus? Is that you?" the Signore asked, his voice coming in loud and clear over the built in speakers within the room.

"Yes, Antón. It's me. Can you see us?"

"I see a lot of handsome looking shelves in need of dusting, but… ah! Wait! There you are!" he exclaimed as Frankie silently pointed to the webcam just above the projection of Bernardini's face, and the pair stepped into frame. The change in the Signore's expression was immediate, his eyes lighting up in pleasure when he realized his old friend was not alone. "Miss Chase! Now this is a pleasant surprise!"

"Good evening, Signore. I hope we aren't disturbing you," Frankie called out.

"Not at all, not at all. Might I ask where you are?"

"We're in my uncle's library. In France."

"France! What on earth are the pair of you doing all the way out there?" he inquired, feigning ignorance.

"My brother and I were due for a visit and Mr. Leinhart was kind enough to accompany us."

The look Bernardini was wearing was one of pure amusement. Dracula, knowing full well where that expression could lead this conversation, sent the man a warning glance, which was aptly ignored.

"Well, I'm pleased to see the two of you still getting on. And meeting the family, no less!"

The insinuation was not lost on either party and while Frankie's eyes darted to the floor in mild embarrassment, Vlad decided to get straight to the point.

"Antón, your translation of the Fabulae Diablo – do you still have it?"

"The Fabulae Diablo? I doubt it. Why do you ask?"

"It's a long and complicated story that I don't have time to get into right now," Dracula insisted, but Frankie interjected.

"Mr. Leinhart here offered to help me get a better hold over my blood-rage, but I guess when he was assessing the damage, he saw something when he was in my head that spooked him and I think we need your translation to make sense of it."

"When he was in your head?"

"I can explain later. The translation, Antón. We need that translation," Vlad insisted, trying to keep the Italian on track.

"I'm not sure I even have access to it anymore. It's probably in the palace archives somewhere. But I do remember the gist of it. How pressed are you for time?"

"Whatever you can give us now would be of great benefit, Signore," Frankie insisted before Dracula could even answer, her sudden eagerness catching his attention. "We are quite at your leisure."

The woman's expression altered suddenly, eyes filled with an indefinable need that silenced both men. She seemed to be actively choosing her next words with great care.

"There's something inside of me," she continued with noted solemnity, the impact of her utterance on Vlad in particular completely lost to her as she stared blankly at the book still in her hands. "It's always been there. But now it's awakening and I don't know what to do with it. I'm afraid…"

Unbeknownst to Frankie, Antón's attention was entirely on his king. Dracula's eyes had widened considerably at her speech, the words, which she had never spoken in person until this moment, identical to the ones he had heard when inside her mind not even a half hour ago. The things he had felt and seen in the basement of the old house flooded back in full force as he recalled what else she had said…

I can't face the darkness alone. Help me, Vladislaus… Free us.

He still wanted to help her in any way that he could. It was a need that had already taken root in him, growing with every passing moment he spent in her presence. The mere recollection of those hopeless tears she had shed in her bedchambers just this afternoon were enough to send a visible shiver down his spine, the slight movement of his person, coupled with the haunted look now on his face, intriguing his friend, who continued to appraise with keen eyes.

"Vladislaus?" Antón called out in earnest, his expression grave.

Vlad took several long moments to reply as he struggled to regain his composure.

"Lamian Strigoi," he said at last. "I couldn't recall where I had heard those words at first, but then I remembered the Fabulae Diablo and the story…"

Bernardini, who had been seated comfortably just moments prior, straightened rather noticeably.

"The story of Lamia. Yes… yes, I remember."

"Lamia? Like the Greek myth?" Frankie chimed in, sensing the unspoken conversation occurring between the two men.

"No, although now that you mention it, I suppose there are some vague similarities," Antón explained. "All legends have their origins." The Italian leaned back in his seat, trying to get comfortable again before proceeding. "When Lucifer fell, he did not fall alone. While most of those who had fallen from paradise were stripped of their angelic forms – including Lucifer, who was rendered virtually powerless without a physical body that could adequately host him – he was forced to rely on his servants who would in turn do his bidding. There were two in particular of note – fallen angels that had somehow been able to maintain their forms. Sisters. Lilith and Lamia."

Frankie placed the tome in her hands down on the table in front of her as she stared unblinkingly up at the projection of Bernardini on the wall.

"The Fabulae Diablo is merely that – the story of the devil – a fable, really, and there's no guarantee that it's all entirely accurate. But it details how he came to be and, more importantly, how we came to be. The Genesis of the Vampire. Because Lucifer lost his physical body and therefore much of his power, his most devoted servants, Lilith and Lamia, acted as his right and left hands – working together in tandem. Now angels, it is said, depending on their rank, can possess certain powers, specifically that to either create or manipulate and mold life – although their skills in doing so varies from person to person."

"So when he lost his physical form, Lucifer also lost his ability to create, I assume?" Frankie guessed.

"Essentially, but the desire remained in him – a potential left forever unfulfilled, always out of reach. Such was his curse, his punishment for rebelling against God."

"So I take it Lilith and Lamia, who still – for some reason – had their physical forms, acted as his proxy – given that vampires, werewolves, and demons do in fact exist."

"That is correct. Lilith and Lamia were entirely devoted to Lucifer, but that devotion had led not only to their fall, but it also gave way for a rift to form between them as they both sought his favor in this new order. Lamia and Lilith from their inception had always been two sides of the same coin, if you will – they had always been strongest together, working as one. But the story goes that the longer they were separated from heaven and under Lucifer's influence, the more they fell out of balance. It wasn't long before they found themselves unable to utilize their once divine gifts, rendering them all but useless. And instead of coming together, pulling from one another's strength in order to please their master, to ease his suffering with the one thing he wanted more than anything, they were only driven farther apart."

"What was it that Lucifer wanted?"

"Progeny."

There was some part of Bernardini's dark tale that resonated with Frankie, this concept of a woman longing to give her beloved the gift of issue, something to live on as a physical manifestation of their devotion to one another. She had felt such a longing when she had been mortal, when she had once believed herself in love with Alphonse. But she also knew too well of the desperation that followed when she found she could not give her mortal husband the son he had craved…. and the horrors that had persisted, the years spent trying to heal. It had taken her decades to overcome her resentment of other women and their ability to produce offspring, especially the ones she had once believed undeserving of such a gift.

She was loathed to admit it, but she could perfectly understand the frustration of these sisters, the spite and jealousy that had grown between them. But age and experience had made her wise, and the mention of strength in unity was not at all lost to her.

"This failure to provide Lucifer with issue," the Italian continued, "devotees to worship and obey him for all eternity – or at the very least some kind of offspring to bear his mark as one of the fallen," and he absently motioned to Vladislaus without even realizing it, "needless to say, this made fertile breeding ground for further contention and imbalance. I can't recall the exact details leading up to the event – but there are some who subscribe to the belief that Lucifer favored Lamia over Lilith. Before their fall into perdition, Lilith had been considered Lucifer's greatest ally and asset, but it was Lamia who had always been his favorite, the one he intended to make his queen. Some scholars believe that Lilith, especially after her descent from grace, had become too ambitious, too difficult to control for Lucifer's liking."

"A powerful man getting intimidated by a woman's ambition? How original," Frankie muttered mostly to herself, but Bernardini smiled.

"The devil's power has always been in the manipulation of others. It's his forte. His weakening hold over Lilith no doubt made him feel threatened, his already debilitated authority more tentative."

"So what happened to Lilith and Lamia? Clearly because we exist," and she motioned between the three of them, "they eventually found success."

"True, but at great cost. Still desperate to grant her master's wish, the most popular conjecture is that Lamia stole a portion of her sister's power – whatever it was she was using to maintain their physical forms post-fall – and she used that to create the first incarnation of our kind – the strigoi. According to the Fabulae Diablo, Lamia took seven mortal women and through the use of her power and what she had stolen from Lilith, she was able to change them, to disrupt the natural order, and thereby breaking Celestial law. She made what had once been mortal, immortal… well, mostly immortal."

"What do you mean?"

"These women and their female issue would be blessed – or cursed, depending on how you look at it – with unnaturally elongated life. They were still vulnerable to disease and physical injury, but to old age and natural death, they were immune. And to preserve their youthful vigor, and thus decreasing their susceptibility to illness, they would drink the blood of the living."

"And these were the first Lamian Strigoi? The first vampires?"

"Precisely. They could breed like normal mortal women, the curse of the Lamian Strigoi passed down from mother to daughter – only ever in the female line – but it was blood that preserved their vitality."

"What became of them? These women?"

"They established matriarchal societies, often completely separate from regular mortals for fear of illness and the general prejudices and misogynistic tendencies of the time. They flourished for some centuries actually, until Lilith discovered what had been done."

That left an unpleasant knot in Frankie's stomach.

"Enraged that Lamia had not only been the first to create since their fall, but that she had done so 'alone,' it is said that Lilith murdered her sister in cold blood and harnessed the power of Lamia's soul, keeping it for herself. She allowed Lucifer to maintain his dominion over Hell, but to punish him for pitting her sister against her, she destroyed Lamia's body so it could not be repurposed or repossessed by any spirit, further condemning him to an existence without a corporeal form that could sustain his soul, thus denying him the ability to use his own power."

Frankie's lips curved just barely to form a somewhat spiteful smile. She didn't necessarily agree with Lilith's actions, but she could appreciate a strong woman taking charge as she had done. Although the murder of a sister – that had been too far in her book. But she never said as much, remaining quiet as Antón continued.

"After removing Lamia from the equation and effectively putting a leash of Lucifer, Lilith attempted to not only recreate, but to perfect her sister's design in the form of Marcus Augustine. But, as we all know, this attempt was unsuccessful because he could not reproduce more of his kind – and from what I've heard, she was relentless in testing the extent of not only his abilities, but his limits." The Italian paused, sending Vladislaus a meaningful look. "At the time, this was of little concern to Lucifer. He still had the Lamian Strigoi – tribes of women he somehow managed to manipulate and turn until they became communes of murderesses obsessed with their own longevity. At last, he had someone to worship him, the Son of the Morning…"

"Until Lilith set Marcus upon them," Vlad chimed in, watching as Frankie moved to lean against the edge of the table in front of her, attention turning to him as he spoke. "For one thousand years, he scoured the earth, slaughtering every descendent of Lamia's creation until they were all but extinct, save a single line he had missed…"

"Your line," Bernardini explained with sudden feeling. "The blood of your mother, grandmother, and great-grandmothers – from time immemorial when the first of the Lamian Stirgoi had been created all the way down to you."

"But how is that even possible? The female ancestors on my mother's side didn't belong to a devil-worshipping, blood-drinking, matriarchal cult," Frankie insisted. "My mother was a grand duchess of Russia when she married my father, a blue-blooded Petrovna. And my grandmother, by all accounts was just as noble, not to mention fiercely devout, a model Orthodox Christian."

"It is very possible that the strigoi in your mother's line grew dormant after going generations without being fed. It would also account for why your mother's ancestry was so well preserved, kept safe from Lilith's revenge," Antón offered. "Which also explains why it feels – as you said earlier – like something has been rousing within you. Because it is. In fact, I would hazard a guess and say that you first really noticed it after your blood-rage manifested itself. Am I correct?"

Frankie looked between the video projection of Bernardini and a silent Vladislaus several times before her mind slowly began to accept the very real possibility that all of this was true. The wheels in her head began to turn…

"So let's assume that you're right and I have Lamian Strigoi in me. Why is that important? Why does it even matter?"

"Because the Lamian Strigoi – if Lilith hadn't gone on her rampage – would have served as the perfect equipoise for her later creation: the vampire as we know them today. Our kind."

Frankie turned her attention to Vlad, instinctually searching for him as if she needed his confirmation.

His silence spoke volumes.

"Lucifer has only ever desired a disruption of the natural order, a petty revenge on the god who had banished him from paradise," Bernardini explained. "And while the vampire and the Lamian Strigoi are embodiments of this desire, to have both beings manifested in a single creature… such a creation would be the ultimate show of defiance against heaven. A thing untouchable by death, perhaps even immune to the finality of judgment… and with the power and capacity to command, to rule, to protect the rest of the world's fallen creatures in a way that not even Dracula himself can – perhaps even to give life to a new breed of vampire. An all-mother to the damned. The antithesis of the old gods. A queen of the eternal night…"

"The undying bride of the dragon," she whispered, the pieces coming together more quickly now as she lost herself in Vlad's suddenly intense gaze.

"It is you, Francesca," Antón exclaimed, watching with private delight as the pair continued to look into each other's eyes. He could feel the pull between them, could see their connection without even needing to be in the same room – let alone the same country. "It has always been you. Your mother was already bound to your father by the time Mariella prophesied of your union. You are the last of the Lamian Strigoi, the only one left in existence. You are all that is left of Lamia. That is why you have been preserved, why Marcus could not destroy you."

Dracula slowly began to move toward her as his friend continued to speak and with his growing nearness, Frankie could feel the power flowing from him, even with that concealment charm still draped around his neck. It called to her, his energy, his darkness, his soul and blood – music that only her heart could hear and it left her spellbound and utterly breathless.

"You are also vampire – a creature of Lilith; the only being that has ever lived or who may ever live with the power of both. Within you exists the potential to restore the harmony and unity that was lost between those two sides after their fall – perhaps even powerful enough to free the souls of our brethren who have already met true death and are lost to the mists. Lilith and Lamia were always at their strongest when they worked in tandem together." Antón made a move with his hand as if he were motioning to Francesca. "That thing inside of you, what you said has always been there but is finally waking up – I believe that to be the Lamian Strigoi in you. It and your blood-rage – the hunger of the vampire unchecked – they are two halves of the same whole as Lamia and Lilith once were, desperate to fulfill the measure of their creation. But in order to do so, they must be reunited so the power inside of you can at last exist as a mended whole, unconstrained."

"And then what happens, once it's unleashed?"

"You'll be free," Vlad answered, voice low as he reached for her hand.

The contact of skin to skin was electric as his fingers brushed against hers before taking a more firm grip.

Her undead heart leapt at the touch and the pull between them only intensified.

"Free?"

"Limitless. Untouchable. Whole."

"What must I do? How is it to be done?" she asked eagerly.

She wanted this.

She couldn't understand why, why now, but she did. In that moment, Frankie desired nothing more than to achieve this revealed purpose, to free the power within her, to heal the bond, to realize her own potential.

But when Antón did not answer right away, his silence momentarily broke the spell as both she and Vlad turned to look at the video projection on the wall. Bernardini's expression had become crestfallen, the disappointment in his eyes evident as he looked in the direction of Vlad.

He didn't need to explain for Frankie to understand.

In order to overcome her blood-rage, to heal the rift between her vampire self and the Lamian Strigoi, the prophecy had to be fulfilled. She needed the blood of the first vampire, the purest incarnation of Lilith's creation.

She needed to be blood-bound to Dracula.

And with that realization, her heart sank and her hand slipped from Vlad's when she saw the truth of it in his eyes.

That must have been what he had seen in her, she thought to herself. He must have seen that the only way to free her was for them to be blood-bound. She needed an anchor, someone to hold her steady so she could soar – of course it had to be him!

But in an instant, her single ray of hope was dashed to pieces.

Francesca de Chacier could never be bound to Vladislaus, king of the undying, first of his kind – not with this poison running through her veins.

The disappointment was too much to be borne. Her chest grew tight and a wave of nausea swept over her as tears began to prick her eyes.

Without even excusing herself, Frankie departed abruptly from the room, vanishing from sight without so much as a word.

"I am so sorry, Vladislaus," Antón said after some long moments of pregnant silence. Although Dracula's face was not fully in view, it took very little imagination to guess what he must have been experiencing in that moment. When Vlad did finally turn to offer reply, his mask of composure was securely in place, yet the Italian knew better than to trust it.

"Have you found anything? Anything that we could do to help her?"

Bernardini shook his head regretfully.

"I am still looking, but no – I've found nothing."

Again, silence.

Vlad glanced down at the hand that had been holding Francesca's just moments ago before he clenched it slowly into a fist, pressing his knuckles down against the surface of the table in front of him as if doing so would keep his mounting frustration in check.

"I have been stabbed, gutted, burned, and dismembered; flayed, staked, drowned, tortured… I have survived pestilence and plague and famine and wars and betrayals, horrors without number, and still I stand." He looked up at his friend. "I have defeated death. It holds no power over me. Why is it, then, that her blood… her blood, of all people…" Dracula paused, momentarily overcome as he struggled to keep his composure. "What if you're wrong? What if Augustine intended to poison her for me but instead it has no effect? There's a very real possibility that I could be immune."

"But there's no way to prove that without putting yourself and the whole of our kind at risk," Antón insisted. "It is true, her blood could affect you differently from the rest of us – in truth, it very well may be even more potent to you! It took three weeks for that scar on my hand to heal, Vladislaus. Two months before the pain finally subsided, and her blood had only touched my skin for maybe a few seconds. It could react very differently to yours."

"But there's still a chance that it could have no effect. Mariella's prophecy says…"

"My wife prophesied of your union long before Marcus got his hands on Francesca. She had foreseen many things in her day, but there's a very strong chance that she had not foreseen this."

"Then why did she come to me?" Dracula insisted, growing visibly agitated, his self-control slipping as his emotions got the better of him. "Why go through the trouble of marking me, of putting me on this path if it was for naught?"

"I don't know, my friend. I don't have all the answers."

Clearly displeased, Vlad swore viciously in his native tongue, momentarily succumbing to his temper as he slammed his hand down on the table.

"Why does Marcus hate me so much? Why, after everything, does he allow that… that demoness, Lilith, to manipulate him, to pit him against me as she does?" he snapped.

"Well, you did murder Mathis and make him watch," Antón answered rather candidly. "And he's lived in your shadow from the moment you were created."

"He was not blood-bound to Mathis. If anything, the boy was Marcus' pet. That sociopath took Alessia away from me! My daughter! My blood-bound daughter! I forgave Mathis time and again for his questioning of my authority, but he crossed a line that night! She deserved justice!"

"You know perfectly well that Alessia would not have approved of you slaughtering her killer, a man who didn't even intend to murder her in the first place! Her death was an accident!"

"Are you saying this is my fault?" Dracula asked, voice strained and expression hard. "That if I hadn't killed Mathis, Marcus wouldn't have gotten it into his head that he needed to not only dedicate decades of his existence to thwarting my every chance at happiness, but to also torture and mutilate an innocent woman who did nothing wrong, who played no part in any of this?! Who never asked for any of this?!"

"I'm not saying any of this is your fault, Vladislaus," Antón sighed impatiently. "We've been through this before. I'm just saying – all of our actions have consequences, many of which we never see the fruits of until it is too late. I know that making peace with Marcus is entirely out of the question. The man is too far-gone. I'm only suggesting that perhaps he isn't entirely as awful as you believe him to be."

"I can't believe my ears!" Vlad exclaimed in disbelief. "You… you of all people… He burned your wife at the stake, Antón! Or have you already forgotten?"

Bernardini's expression hardened almost immediately, eyes narrowing.

"Just because I choose not to completely dehumanize my enemies does in no way suggest that I excuse their behavior, Vladislaus," he replied, his words delivered evenly, rationally. "I do not have it in me to forgive that madman for what he did to Mariella, but I'm also not narcissistic enough to willfully ignore that the man is a product of what he has endured. Yes, he is insecure and petty and cruel, but if he is thus, we must at least accept our share of the responsibility. Not the blame – the responsibility. There is a difference. Only Marcus is to fault for his actions, but we are – at the very least in part – accountable for how we have treated him. He is who he is today because of things you and I have both done."

"I refuse to be held accountable for his actions," Dracula answered, his voice like the lash of a whip. "I will own the responsibility of my own decisions, but never his. What he has done, the ways in which he has betrayed me and my own leaves him beyond any hope of redemption. He will meet true death, one way or another – and I swear this to you now, Antón, I will be there to witness it… and I will revel in his suffering."

Eduardo discovered Frankie in the shadows of the loggia overlooking the gardens. She was leaning against one of the pillars, a black-colored cigarette between her lips with the butts of at least two others on the ground near her feet. The woman had a look of agitation about her, the hand currently removing the end of the chic looking cancer stick trembling just a little as she exhaled out a puff of the clove flavored smoke. Even in the darkness he could see the way her brows furrowed over her eyes, as stormy as the weather.

The woman could out-brood Lord Byron.

The Spaniard chuckled privately at the thought as he approached.

"There you are, cariño!" he exclaimed, his enthusiasm genuine as he made his way over, but his pace slowed and the natural exuberance in his expression waned when he noticed the trails of rusted tears on her cheeks. "Francesca?" His call was filled with concern and it sent another tear tumbling down her cheek.

Frankie turned her head away, embarrassed, not wishing to openly cry in front of him, but it was too late. The tears had started again and he was already at her side, hands gently taking her by the upper arms as he turned her about so she would face him. Satanas took her chin in his hand delicately, trying to lift her gaze up to his. She resisted at first.

"What has happened, mi cielo?" he asked with great tenderness, brushing away her tears with the back of his fingers.

"I hate him, Eduardo. I hate him so much!" she replied, the tail end of her proclamation broken by a sob that had caught in her throat. "I would kill him if I could. And I'd make it slow… would force him to feel all that I have felt and still it would not be enough."

Her sire chuckled a little in the face of her anger.

"It is only a lover's quarrel, pet. It'll pass soon enough. Whatever his majesty did, I am sure it is not so terrible."

But Frankie's expression told him that it was not Vladislaus of whom she spoke and that amusement was quick to leave his face. Eduardo's brows furrowed a little.

"Wait – we're not talking about Dracula?"

She shook her head, the mere mention of the man's name sending her eyes to well with tears again, expression cracking.

There was only one other person he could think of that his favorite fledgling hated more than anyone in all the world and the Spaniard's heart sank a little.

"Augustine," he said in understanding and the flash of rage he saw in her eyes confirmed his suspicions. "What more has that foul demon done to you, my darling?"

"He has taken everything – my blood, my family… my freedom."

"He has taken many things, but I assure you, you are still free, cariño. That monster will never be able to cage you again."

But she shook her head, lip quivering.

"No, Eduardo. I would infinitely prefer an actual cage to the one he has put me in, for this prison I can never be free of." She looked up into the soothing gaze of his warm brown eyes, seeking some form of comfort even as her heart continued to break. "There is a way to heal my blood-rage. There is also a power within me that is mine and mine alone, and if I can mend what he broke, I can taste of true freedom once more… only he has completely destroyed the key."

"You mean… your blood?" he guessed, trying to follow her metaphor. When she nodded in confirmation he secretly sighed a little in relief, but then he started to follow the rest of that thought, putting the pieces together. "You mean, if you could be blood-bound to Dracula…"

He didn't need to finish.

Satanas knew Frankie well enough to understand her mind in such instances as these.

She had yet to utter the words aloud, but he could see then, in those devastatingly blue eyes of hers, the truth of the situation. Francesca Elisabeth de Chacier had fallen in love. She was in love with Vladislaus and the realization that she could never have him, that she would never be able to find the freedom she so desperately craved in him – it had all but broken her.

Eduardo, unable to bear the wretched anguish in her face, took Frankie in his arms and held her close as she wept silently. Gently caressing her hair, he whispered, "Don't worry, cariño… we'll find a way. There has to be another way."

But Frankie remained silent in the face of his words, finding no comfort in promises she knew he had no power to keep.

PLEASE DON'T HATE ME! I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING! JUST TRUST ME!