Dabbling in dark occult was no novelty to the John lineage, nor to anyone associated with it. Divination and symbols and incantations were generally avoided by the common villager boasting common sense. But to John, mysticism was as natural—and dull—as breathing. He had been brought into existence itself by a rite of blood and black magic; for a deck of cards to excite him, they had to promise much. And the stack of tarot cards offered by a traveling diviner promised everything.

"Of course I'd like to hear what'll happen in my future!" John leaned over the table and into the shadow cast by the burlap tent curtains. "You really mean that these cards can show me an answer to anything I ask?"

Had he seen his own greedy grin and frazzled hair, he would have understood the divining raven's twitchy unease. She pushed aside her veil and looked away, keeping her hand curled against her face. The dozens of cheap rings on her fingers glittered.

"More or less, dahlink. For a paltry sum, of course." After this reminder she smiled sweetly. The earrings clipped to her feathers swished against her cheeks.

"Cards first," John said. "Paltry later." Ignoring the diviner's protests, he snatched the deck of cards that lay in the pentagram carved into the wooden tabletop. A few cards slipped from his grasp and scattered over the ground. The diviner nearly dove over the bench to grab at them. John took a delicate step to the right and closed his eyes.

"Dear cards," he began somberly: "Will I ever become rich and famous?"

He held up the remaining cards. Sunlight made a blinding halo around them. He squinted at the fan of cards for a long, silent moment. Then, he plucked one from the stack to hold it up triumphantly.

"Go Fish!"

Wendy had settled by the time John returned to the castle that evening. He meandered around the sitting room nonchalantly awhile before succumbing to the urge to consult Michael about that fortunetelling business. He was compelled to ask why the diviner had given him no answers-even after she had gathered the fallen cards and barked at him that she needed no assistance in doing so. John had taken her suggestion to leave, too frightened to hand her the last card he had retrieved.

"I don't get it, Michael," John said after relaying the experience. "The whole thing was a waste of time. I didn't get one single iota of an answer. And she told me those magic cards of hers could answer any question I ponder in myself a lot."

"And what question might that be, milord?" Michael said in a way that suggested it didn't quite concern him.

"Well, it should be rather obvious." John straightened with a sense of importance to convince himself that, despite Michael's disinterest, the matter was pressing and needed to be discussed.

"I should think I'd like to know whether or not I'm going to ever become fabulously wealthy and world famous. As many times as I've tried without getting anywhere, I've wondered sometimes if it's meant to be at all. That's kind of discouraging, wouldn't you think?"

"Indeed." Michael turned a page of his newspaper and made no further comment.

John propped his hands against his sides to lean into a glare that could have seared a hole through concrete. Upon receiving no response, he snatched the top of the newspaper and crushed it down into Michael's lap. Michael blinked a couple of times. The transition from having his beak poked into an obituary to having it in John's face was jarring at the least.

"Michael!" John's pitchy whine made Michael wince. "Michael, you're just as useless as those cards. I ask you a question, and you don't give me any answer either! Tell me: why didn't those magic cards show me anything? You'd better not tell me that it was just some rip-off racket, either, because my last three drachmas happen to be in someone else's pocket right now because of it."

Michael watched John for a long time, as if deciding what to say or whether to even speak at all. Fifteen agonizing seconds of locking stares with John's squinted, troubled eyes won him over. He took off his reading glasses, clacked the arms flat against the lenses, and tucked them into his pocket.

"It was likely no mere racket, milord. I have had my dealings and encounters with tarot readers, and their tools are genuine. But vampires, sir—such as yourself—contend with other forces of the supernatural. Your nature itself, however you may wish to deny it, is a tempest of wicked magic that overthrows any interference from other forces. Your 'magic cards' included. When vampires are involved, divination is feeble." He paused. "Do you understand, milord?"

John considered this, rolling the explanation through his mind until it became even more jumbled. "Um . . . not exactly. But we'll be saying that I do, because all in all I don't really care about whatever it is that you said, because it still didn't give me any answers about my future."

Michael breathed a long, weary sigh that made his shoulders sag even lower. "Milord . . . your future has been predetermined. Toying with cards was useless to begin with in that regard. Your future needn't be revealed or sifted out of clouds of uncertainty; we know already what it is. The moment you began to exist, being what you are, your future was set—as if in stone, if you will."

John narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about, Michael? Futures can't just be decided like that, before a person's even begun to make any choices to affect it. You can't 'set in stone' for real and for truly posi-lutely for certain what hasn't even happened yet!" The tone of one talking to a toddler faded from his voice when he asked, ". . . Can you?"

Perhaps it was his sudden sincerity or the small voice in which he gave the question that made Michael soften. Michael closed his eyes as though to relish the last few moments of comfort in his chair before stiffly rising to his feet. He creaked like an old door when he moved.

"Come with me, sir," he said, sliding his newspaper under his arm. "In order to answer the question you've presented multiple times while I've been trying to relax, perhaps I should first propose a question to you."

Startled and intrigued, John remained bolstered in place for a minute. Whenever Michael humored him instead of dismissing him, things were less than apt to be pleasant. Gathering his wits, yet too curious to hesitate further, John scampered after Michael.

They began the trek down the long hall. The darkness was cut only by the faint wavering glow of torches mounted here and there. Shadows dripped like molasses down the walls, and the entire corridor smelled of mildew and rust.

John grabbed the corners of his cape to wrap it tighter around himself, warding off a chill. He hated wandering this particular long hall that held so many barred, rotting doors. When he glanced up at Michael's tall back, a gleam of reassurance comforted him. Michael knew every brick and board in the castle, and nothing could take him by surprise. John quickened his pace to follow more closely behind Michael. To keep from looking into the gaping throat of the tunnel ahead, he concentrated on matching his pace with Michael's. Slow. Slow. Dreadfully repetitive with no changes in its thump-clack rhythm.

"Here we are, milord." Michael's low voice sounded ten times louder in the hall. John nearly plowed into Michael's back when he halted. Staggering back a bit, he peered around Michael, expecting to see something far more spectacular than a dry-rotted oaken door. John wilted in disappointment.

"Oh. It's, uh, just the old parlor." With a sniff of disdain, John released his hold on his cape to let the edges brush the stone floor. He adjusted his bow tie with a jerk, gathering his dignity and feeling overall foolish. "Here I was, thinking we were going to do something important. I thought you were going to take me to a dark room to cast a spell or contact a different realm that sees into time or what-have-you. Or you could have at least taken me to the library to gather books about fortunetelling!"

Michael didn't blink during John's rant. When John paused for a breath, Michael gave him an appraising glance that asked without a single word, "Are you quite finished?" John distinctly sensed he were smothering under indignation.

Michael turned to push the parlor door open. The hinges bawled, and a mesh of cobwebs tore from the frame when the door opened.

"Soothsaying is, as I told you, fruitless, milord."

Michael stepped into the ice-cold room. The rough carpet fibers crackled beneath his heels. He trudged past the dust-caked sofa toward the crumbling fireplace. Solemn as ever, he folded his hands behind his back. He stood, John noticed begrudgingly, just a little bit straighter.

"Come here, milord. It's time for you to answer my question."

Hesitantly, John leaned into the room. He surveyed every corner in a sweep, as if fearful something were lurking in the dark. Picking up his cape again, he flounced into the room nervously and stopped by Michael's side.

Just enough moonlight filtered through the cracks in the barred window to illuminate the wall. An eerie green glow reflected off the glass and gilded frame of sixteen portraits. John's heart sank like a stone into his gut. His nerves began to bundle up and tighten.

"Michael, I've seen those dreadful pictures before. I don't want to hear a word about any of my fathers, or their fathers, or their fathers' fathers or their aunts or cousins or whatever. I've always told you I don't like this filthy room. It gives me terrible creeps, and would you look at the time? I do believe we're almost due for dinner, and you do know how George likes us to be punctual for dinner."

As if he hadn't heard John at all, Michael continued staring at the long row of portraits. "Tell me, sir. What do each of these have in common?"

John gave a huff of frustration. "They're all ugly? They're all disgusting, heartless monsters who wasted their lives on bloodsucking and village-terrorizing and maiden-snatching?"

Michael glanced at him. John despised his small amused smile. "I thought you wanted the answer to your question, milord."

John considered this. His stomach felt heavy. Growing numb, he turned back to the portraits. The sick feeling intensified as his gaze meandered over each picture.

"This is ridiculous, Michael," he said softly. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on repeating what he knew Michael wanted to hear.

"My first ancestor, Count John I, died by wandering into sunlight, having no idea of the real consequence of one warm ray. Count John II died by a silver blade. Count John III was killed by—by a stake at the hand of a vampire hunter." John swallowed, suddenly understanding what Michael meant by leading him here. Dread and sickness in its purest form settled in a hard knot in his middle. He recited what Michael had relayed to him countless times before, but his own voice sounded hollow and far away like a dream.

"Count John IV died by sunlight. John V by a stake. The Sixth by silver. The Seventh by stake. Eighth by Sunlight. Sunlight. Stake. Stake. Stake. Stake." He stammered a bit before managing to murmur, "John XV by . . . by his own hand after betrayal. John XVI by . . . Michael, I don't want to say any more. I refuse."

"Very well, milord." Michael nodded in sedate satisfaction. "That was sufficient, if, I assume, you understand now? What did the futures—or may I say instead, fates—of your forefathers each have in common?"

John looked at the pictures again. They hung from the peeling wall, furry with dust, yellowed with age. The red, bloodshot eyes from the paintings stared down at him in contempt.

"I despise your games, Michael," John said vehemently. The spark faded, and John slumped in defeat. "I get what you're trying to tell me now. I should have guessed it from the start. Each of my ancestors—they all died because they were killed by someone who hated them. Stabbed, lured out beneath the sun, captured and held outside in broad daylight, chased by mobs to exhaustion until the sun rose, skewered through the heart with a stake. All those horrible things you talk about. And," he added in a sugary lilt, "it's all for no reason other than that they were vampires, isn't it?"

"You needn't say 'they', milord. You're just as much part of the line as the John who began it. Despite being a disappointment and upholding none of the standards your great ancestors set, you are still a vampire. And your future, milord, is the same as theirs."

A flash of rage made John clutch his fists around his cape and squeeze with all the force he wished he could expel in a tantrum. "How can you even say that, Michael? That's just silly—silly and positively presumptuous! What, are you some sort of diviner now? Have you made a crystal ball out of a skull or something and been reading my future whenever my back is turned?"

John's patronization did nothing to intimidate Michael. It only left John laughing without a trace of mirth, just to shake the tightness and tension in his gut while he hoped Michael would smile back in response and admit how ludicrous it all was. But Michael's countenance was as somber as a funeral. John immediately sobered.

"Seven and a half centuries of faithful service is enough observation and experience to outdo any crystal ball in credibility. Seven and a half centuries of seeing sixteen John live their own lives and follow their own paths. Not one could ever have been mistaken for another. John IX devoted himself to gambling; the Eleventh chose a life of scientific studies. The Third was a gallant horseman, and the Sixteenth wrote journals with the conciseness and clarity of Hemingway.

"Each of your fathers was entirely different. Nothing linked them together apart from vampiric lineage. And yet, despite spanning across centuries, and throughout different eras and societies, they have all met the same fate."

John looked at the floor, examining the intricate Moroccan pattern of the carpet. He clenched his fists in his cape and gritted his teeth. The wish for Michael to simply shut up was more intense than his wish for fame had ever been.

"It is no coincidence, milord." Michael finally let his arms fall to dangle by his sides and turned from the wall of paintings. His yellow stare cut through the darkness, heavy and half-lidded. "It can be nothing but fate that sixteen different men, with no similarities other than their own nature, met the same untimely end. Because they all were vampires, they could not settle into a world that was not meant for them."

Silence fell, thick as a blanket and just as suffocating. Michael's ribs creaked when he breathed. Tree branches clacked together outside. The breeze that sneaked through the slats in the window moaned through the rafters overhead.

"So . . . so that's the answer?" John swallowed. Michael's expression remained the same—flat and tired as always. There was no concern or pity, only exhaustion. It was as if Michael didn't hear him. A static charge of panic made John raise his voice to a shout.

"No. No, that can't, can't, can't be the answer! Are you saying that no matter what I do or how hard I try or how many brilliant ideas I come up with, I'm doomed to be killed and lose everything? Just because people hate me for something I am but I'm not? That's a miserable life, Michael! Is that why you can never show even a little enthusiasm for my plans? Because you think that, even if I succeed, I'll just get killed and it will all be lost anyway?"

"No, milord. That has nothing to do with it. Your schemes, or 'ideas' as you call them, are harebrained and have no chance of success."

"This isn't something to joke about, Michael!" John beat his arms through the air in violent gestures like a windmill, trying to maintain his unraveling composure. "I don't want to go around every day without any plans just because I know it's pointless. That's dismal! That's horrible, awful, pathetic, terrible, it's—it's—"

"Reality, milord?"

Reality. John tightened his shoulders. Reality? Fate? Set in stone? Michael's matter-of-fact tone made his heart go cold as a hailstone. To everyone but John, the matter was as good as settled. He was a vampire, doomed to die in disgrace. Denied the privilege of leaving behind an inspiring legacy or remnants of wealth and respect for the ones who would come after him.

Giving John no more time to reflect in silence, Michael took a few steps forward. When John didn't follow, Michael beckoned.

"Come along, milord. I suppose the George has the table set with broken china and the napkins dyed with pea soup by now. I'd best be tending business in the basement myself, if you'll excuse me."

Rage swelled in John. How Michael could behave so nonchalantly after delivering such a depressing speech was beyond John's comprehension.

"Of course, of course," he said vaguely. "Dinner, yes." He trailed out of the room behind Michael. When he shut the door, the smell of musty tapestry and mildew dissipated.

John sagged against the door for support before Michael could notice that he stumbled. Michael pinned him with one last critical glance before slowly turning and trudging into the shadows. The thump-clack of his footsteps faded, and he was gone.

So this was the answer he'd asked for, John thought. No—not the answer—Michael's answer. Nothing more. Michael had aged through the decades like cheese, growing moldy and ripe with bitterness and discontentment. Of course Michael would tout the answer of inescapable fate. He had seen sixteen masters come and go, and one that had yet to go. Of course the routine would seem like a deplorable fate to his tired eyes. Of course.

John clamped his arms around his middle. Thoughts of his ancestors sloshed through his head in a mush. Surely they had led fulfilled lives. As fulfilled as a bloodthirsty creature's life could possibly be, at any rate. If Michael remembered them by such monikers as 'scientist', 'horseman', 'gambler'—surely they each had accomplished something and achieved a measure of success. And each of the John were remembered; that was a success in itself.

"A miserable death and fate might be Michael's answer to future, but that doesn't mean anything. Why did I let him scare me, anyhow? Maybe everybody has their own answer that's actually just a guess that sounds good."

John sighed. "It was silly of me to think I could pay a stranger to shuffle a deck of cards and tell me my future. Well, I don't know for certain what my answer is, but I do know it's not going to be one that says I have no chance of fame. No sir, a life of boring repetition is not what I'm after. When it comes to the line of John, I want to be separate from the scientists and gamblers and writers that Michael brags about so much. I'm going to be better than all of them. I'm going to be known as 'the star'!"

On impulse, John tucked his hand into his shirt and fumbled before withdrawing a card. He had almost forgotten he slipped it into his jacket while arguing with the divining raven in the village. The paper had practically burned in his pocket.

He examined the card with disgust. How useless the village excursion had been—to think he had been so excited about fortunetelling just this morning. What a waste the gloomy day had been!

He tossed the card into the blackness of the hall as though he were a hurling a discus in the Olympics.

"And that'll be the last I see of you!"

He wanted nothing more to do with cards, and if George suggested they play a game of rummy after dinner he thought he should scream.

As he stamped down the hall and flung his cape over his shoulders, the breeze made the torches flicker erratically. The light that leapt up illuminated the corridor and caught the gloss of the card for a millisecond. Stuck between two crooked cobblestones, the card wavered in the musty air. The words 'THE STAR' glowed just before the shadows oozed down again and flooded the hall.