A few quick notes: thanks for reading/reviewing you guys rock! Sorry about inserting my silly self in every once in a while, it's a lot easier to do in script format let me tell ya! I named this chapter being unable to come up with anything (anything!) that made sense, and, oh yeah, I really do have a crush on Steve Coogan. (Eye roll) Go figure.

Chapter Two: Ready Steady

Life since reincarnation was good for Vladislaus Dracula. He'd decided a long time ago what name and shape he wanted to take, and so there was no more of that tedious decision- making like there had been in the first few hundred years. His brides, too, had settled down to their neverending youth. And life was, on the whole, much more enjoyable since pink togas were outlawed as a crime against humanity in the middle of the ninth century. He now spent most of his time in black (black trousers, shirt, socks, tasseled loafers, underwear, and voluminous cape— which, on top of looking stylish, really did wonders for his figure) except when he slept during the day, for which purpose he had borrowed plaid flannel pyjamas from Igor.

Poor Igor.

He wasn't coming back.

He shouldn't have tortured the monk.

Bad things happened to those who tortured the monk.

Dracula shivered as he considered this. He'd been plagued with some bad dreams recently, and most of them seemed to involve the monk, armed with a whip and, inexplicably, dressed in that ridiculous jester's outfit he'd worn to the masquerade ball.

Dracula decided he'd rather not think about that.

He'd rather think— about his immortality.

As he'd mentioned to Gabriel several times, endless life was so much easier to enjoy when you pretty much did whatever you wanted and didn't worry about good and evil. Gabriel didn't seem to grasp the point. He kept trying to kill Dracula.

Poor Gabriel. So handsome— so strong— so slow on the uptake.

Still, Dracula couldn't deny that they'd had some good times together. Fights, mostly. There was Russia, there was Persia, there was India, there was Transylvania, there was Pennsylvania (see "Van Helsing and the Village People"). There was even that little incident in Australia. Gabriel hadn't enjoyed that one, though Dracula had found the bloody-minded cheerfulness of the Australians amusing. They had just gotten on Gabriel's nerves.

Briefly, because the Writer's mind was wondering, Dracula wondered how on earth he'd managed to escape the light bomb the monk had set off in his palace.

Oh well. Such was life.

He noticed suddenly that the castle was silent.

Silent as the dead.

Ha ha.

He really had to work on his joke-telling skills. That one probably wouldn't have even cracked Marishka up— and she laughed at everything, even Saturday Night Live.

Speaking of Marishka—

He strode through the castle, calling languidly as he moved, "My brides— my brides— "

He'd learnt, over the years, the exact pitch and tone to use so his voice echoed around the halls like the cry of a ghost.

But no-one answered him and eventually he got fed up with dramatics, stomped his foot and yelled, "Verona! Aleera! Marishka! Where the bleep are you?"

He said "bleep" because he knows the Writer isn't exactly big on profanity.

Then he said, "Bugger!" because he knows the Writer doesn't really count British profanity as real profanity. In fact, she thinks its funny.

The Writer, Dracula reflected, had some serious issues to work out. Putting herself in fanfiction— using the term "rocks havers" even though she's American— and that ridiculous crush on Steve Coogan— of course, she was unusually euphoric at the moment because of having passed her driver's exam.

Bloody Writer, Dracula thought, earning a giggle from the slandered party, and moved on.

Once again, his voice echoed through the halls, lonely— mournful— haunting. Dracula thought, "I am really really bloody good at this, aren't I?"

The empty castle yielded up only unliving sounds— echoes, rustles from the bats in the belfry, and the sound of a persistent drip of water from the kitchen sink.

Odd how loud simple sounds like that can seem. The kitchen was at the other end of the castle, and yet the annoying drip drip drip poink! was already jarring on the Count's nerves. He'd sent a Wheedle down to fetch the plumber, then had to send another down to a different plumber, giving the second one careful instructions not to pull the plumber's head off and carry it back in its jaws.

He strode on, trying to ignore the sounds. He ended up on the balcony overlooking the tiny, ravaged village. There he stood, allowing the wind to blow his hair back dramatically, and thinking about his missing brides.

They weren't what they are now to begin with.

That sounded needlessly complicated, didn't it? I'll start again.

I made them what they are— beautiful—

The sound of the drip interrupted his thoughts. Plink!

deadly—

Plink!

everlasting—

Plink!

I've given them everything they could ask for—except children, of course, but honestly, who in their right mind would ask for children?

Plink!

And where are they now? Where could they be?

A thought struck him and he stared in horror at the dismal landscape below him.

They talked of changing centuries, of pursuing a record deal— I laughed at them and told them not to be imbeciles— but suppose they did it anyway?

Suppose they went to the future?

No, no. Impossible. They couldn't have done that.

But then where are they?

Where?

Plink!

Where?

Plink!

Unable to stand it any longer, Dracula whirled in a flurry of cloak and howled back into the castle, "Where's the bleeding plumber!?"

He'd need help to retrieve his brides from wherever it was they'd gone. But first he had more pressing matters to attend to.

His business, thought Dracula grimly, arming himself with a wrench, was with the sink tonight.