A low buzzing droned in Vlad's left ear. He turned his head away from the sound, brow furrowing as his throat throbbed. Thirsty…. The buzzing followed.

He hissed at it, rubbing his eyes. The buzzing got louder, and louder still, until it had grown to a dull roar inside his skull.

The buzzing seemed to be travelling in circles overhead; he moaned, covering his ears.

"Shut it!" He shouted at whoever-it-was, whimpering as his voice clamored outward in waves that echoed off the walls and bounced in rings around him. It felt like water, ebbing and flowing over his body in a steady rhythm.

Vlad waved a hand experimentally, feeling the drag on his arm as it moved this way and that.

Was that air? Was this sound?

The buzzing grew deafening, then, and he sat up, snarling, searching for the source of the awful racket.

He blinked. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the blinding light of a nearby torch, and at first, he saw nothing. The room was empty except for him.

Bit-by-bit, his world came into focus. Then, he spotted it: far above his head, zooming toward a far corner of the room was a small black fly.

Its motion seemed sluggish, somehow, as if the creature was flying through honey instead of air. Still—it was strangely beautiful. Vlad found himself wishing he could examine it more closely.

And just like that, he was. One moment, he was sitting and clutching at his temple, and the next he was crouched on the ceiling, his face centimetres away from the small creature.

He stared in awe at its gossamer wings, which radiated every color imaginable. Its head was grotesque, and covered in thick black hairs. Its eyes were split into a thousand tiny facets, which sparkled like purplish-green gemstones.

Vlad tore his gaze away from the creature and stared down—up?—at the floor. He felt deeply disoriented. How long had he been hanging like this?

His brow furrowed. He wondered why his head wasn't pounding. Surely the blood would have gone to his head by now?

Vlad stiffened as realization hit. The transformation.

He fell to the ground, surprised when he landed smoothly on his feet. He grabbed his wrist. Nothing. He pressed two fingers to his throat, and waited: his heart had stopped. Which could only mean one thing.

No. No, no, no….

Vlad's eyes squeezed shut, and his knees nearly buckled as despair set in.

And then, a miracle happened. There, against his fingertips, so light he almost missed it, he felt a very faint thud.

Vlad's ears perked. He waited another minute, certain he must have imagined it. But it wasn't a dream—nearly two whole minutes after the first thud, he felt another.

So. Vampires did have a heartbeat. Just… an incredibly slow one.

Vlad sat there, stunned. Now that he thought about it, it made some sort of sense. After all, vampires had blood, didn't they? That blood had to get around their bodies somehow. He really should have paid more attention in his father's vampire biology lessons.

Still—the discovery that his heart could still beat was highly encouraging.

The second shock came when Vlad's thoughts turned to breathing, only to remember that he wasn't.

Curious, Vlad took a deep, bracing lungful of air. It was strange—his ribs expanded, and oxygen flowed in, but it didn't bring the same rush that it normally would. It felt a bit like breathing water, only without the risk of choking. He held his breath for several minutes, just to see what would happen. Even though he was expecting it, he was still amazed when the pressing need for air never came.

An ear-splitting thunder wrenched the quiet, shaking the floor beneath him. Vlad swayed on his feet. An earthquake? He thought wildly. In Wales?

Eventually the pain lessened somewhat, and he pulled his hands away from his ears. The sound morphed. He concentrated, and it began to vaguely resemble speech.

"!... Ad?…. Vlad!" The sound sharpened into what was definitely a man's voice. Vlad struggled to make out the words.

"… hear me? Say …. You've gone quiet."

Robin.


Vlad stood straighter, brushing the dirt from his trousers. He spared one last furtive glance at the blood mirror.

His reflection was gone, so he must have merged with it already. Vlad squinted; he couldn't shake the feeling that he was forgetting something important. He thought hard about the events that had transpired since entering the room.

But, try as he might, he couldn't quite bring the details of the memory into focus. There was a conversation—he had definitely spoken with someone. Someone who had looked just like him….

That would have been his reflection. But what had they talked about?

Shouldn't I feel more… evil? He peered down at his chest, suddenly suspicious. How would he know if he was evil, anyway?

He still had no desire to kill anyone, or tear anyone to pieces. Had the merge failed, somehow?

"Vlad! Open up!" That was his father.

Oh, right.

Vlad turned in the direction of the door, and a split second later, stood blinking in confusion with his hands pressed against it.

That would take some getting used to.

He pushed, careful not to overdo it. The doors creaked as the turned on their hinges, and then Vlad was face to face with his father.

"Look at you!" The Count smiled broadly, approaching with spread arms. Ingrid and Will were nowhere to be seen. "At last, the dashing villain emerges, triumphant!"

Vlad sniffed, an odd sense of déjà vu coming over him as the most enticing aroma of his life washed over him. He glanced around with wide eyes, and spotted Robin, who was standing just to the left of the door.

Robin's hands were in his pockets, and he was looking Vlad over with an unreadable expression.

Vlad could hear his heartbeat, echoing loud and steady in the large room; could count every freckle on his face and neck. Robin's bottom lip was oddly dented, as if he'd had been chewing on it for hours.

Maybe he had been? "How long was I in there, for?"

But before Robin could answer, he was enveloped in a stiff embrace. "I always knew you could do it, Vlad! There was never a doubt in my mind."

"Thanks, Dad," Vlad muttered, impatient. He couldn't take his eyes off his friend. How had he never noticed how… soft Robin looked around the edges? Fragile, even.

He could smell Robin's sweat. Was he nervous? The other boy's lips were moving—oh. He was saying something.

"…couldn't believe it. You were screaming for nearly twenty minutes straight." Vlad stared. "Hey, are you feeling all right? You look different." Robin's eyes widened, and he held up his hands. "I mean, you look good. Great, even." He smacked himself in the forehead. "Just… forget everything I just said."

Vlad raised his eyebrows.

A hand came out of nowhere, grabbing Vlad's shoulder. Startled, he twisted, and in a split second had the Count's wrists pinned in a vice-like grip.

Vlad quickly released him. "Sorry."

His father chuckled. "No need to apologize! My son has finally accepted his heritage. I couldn't be more pleased."

Vlad's ears perked at a rustle of clothing coming from his left. "Does this mean you're evil, now?" Robin's voice was calm and careful.

Vlad looked at him. "I— don't know."

"Of course he is," the Count exclaimed, taking hold of Vlad's shoulders. "He's a Dracula." He glared in Robin's direction. "And as such, I imagine he'll be wanting nothing more to do with foolish peasant rituals. Vlad's had enough of sleepovers, and…" he shuddered. "School."

Vlad opened his mouth to protest, but was interrupted.

"I wouldn't be so sure, father. Vlad's weakness for breathers runs deeper than you might think." Vlad whirled—where had she come from? "Especially for one breather in particular..."

"Nonsense," the Count said, gesturing toward Robin's gangly frame with distaste. "This is just a… phase Vlad's been going through. Isn't that right, Vladimir?"

Vlad ignored his father. "What've you got there?" He asked instead, pointing to the blue parcel tucked under his sister's arm.

"Oh, nothing," Ingrid purred. "Just your birthday gift."


Robin made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a cough; Vlad spared a small glance for him, before becoming distracted once again by the sound of crinkling paper.

Ingrid's fingernail sliced through the giftwrap in one smooth motion, and she smiled sweetly as she held up a small bottle of dark fluid. She uncorked it, passing her hand over the lip and wafting the air in Vlad's direction. "My. What is that smell?"

"Give it to me," Vlad growled.

"Okay," Ingrid said in a singsong voice, handing him the bottle. He took it eagerly.

"Vlad!" Robin's voice cut like a beacon through the fog of Vlad's mind. "Don't—that's human blood!"

Vlad froze; the bottle was already halfway to his lips. His mouth was watering out of control, and he cursed under his breath.

He knew Robin was right. But Gods, how he wanted it! Reluctantly, he averted his gaze, and held his breath. There—that stopped the smell, at least.

He could do this. Hanging his head, and gripping the bottle tightly, Vlad shoved it toward his sister.

When she didn't take it, he glared at her, lip curling to reveal his fangs. Ingrid straightened, schooling her expression into one of cool disinterest.

"Take it back, Ingrid. I know what you're trying to do, but it won't work." He swallowed, the words hooks in his throat. "I want nothing to do with it."

He risked a glance at Robin, who was giving him a strange look.

Ingrid scowled. "Fine. More for me, then." She grabbed the bottle, corking it swiftly and shoving it in her pocket.

Vlad felt a keen sense of loss at the sight; but he knew in his heart it was for the best.

Ingrid turned on her heels, her cape billowing out behind her. "I'm going back to sleep," she called out behind her, but no one paid her any mind. "Later, losers."

The Count turned to his son, a pleading look in his eye."Now, now; there's no need to get so worked up over a little spot of blood. You absolutely need to feed on someone soon, or you'll perish." He glanced at Robin briefly, then shook his head with a vague look of disgust. "We can go out and hunt together, tonight, under the full moon. How about it, mm? Just the two of us?"

Vlad's glanced at him sharply. "I won't eat humans." The Count's eyes glowed red—but whatever he had been about to say, he seemed to think better of it.

"Of course. There's a fine selection of local livestock nearby that may be more to your liking. We can be off as soon as the sun has set."

Vlad hesitated, considering his offer. "I'll… think about it." He looked around, a thought occurring to him. "Where's Renfield? I'd like to have a word with him."

The Count looked at his nails. "He'd better be ironing my cloak for tonight. If you see him, would you kick him in the teeth for me?"

Vlad turned to Robin, offering him a hand. "Shall we go find him?"

"Is it really you, then?" Robin asked. He gave Vlad a searching look. "You're not just pretending, like Boris?"

Vlad gave him a cautious smile. "I'm pretty sure Boris was just an idiot." That startled a laugh out of Robin.

They grinned at each other. "I don't know what if I could have done it without your help," Vlad said modestly.

"I'm sure you would have been fine."

Vlad laughed in disbelief. "Did you just turn down a compliment?"

The Count rubbed his temple. "Would you two please take this ghastly conversation upstairs? I'm growing weary of the breather's calming influence." He gripped the bridge of his nose. "You disappoint me, Vlad. We really must talk about your unfortunate penchant for the company of peasants. For now, however, I think I will retire to my chambers…." Before he left, he shot Vlad one last conspiratorial wink. "I will see you at sun-down."

"Right." Vlad said, giving him a quick thumbs up. When his father was gone, he leaned in close to Robin's ear and whispered, "Come on—I have a plan, but I need to check something first."

Robin nodded, muttering a quick "After you, then," and gesturing for him to take the lead.

Vlad couldn't fail to notice Robin's cheeks had turned an odd shade of pink.

Interesting.

His stomach felt strange, as if tiny bats had taken up residence inside his belly; but Vlad ignored it, chalking it up to leftover transformation jitters.


They caught Renfield in his lab, working over a bright orange concoction that smelled absolutely gruesome.

"Renfield," Vlad cut in, startling his manservant, who nearly dropped the vial he was holding. "I need your help."

Renfield lifted his mask. "Of course, Master Vlad." He looked Vlad up and down, as if sizing him up. Vlad wondered what he looked like; with a pang, he realized he'd probably never know.

"I must say, you're looking quite dashing today, your Highness. The transformation went well, I take it?"

Vlad shrugged. "I don't remember that much of it, to be honest. But… could be worse, I suppose."

Renfield smiled toothily. "Well, then. How can I be of service?"

Vlad lowered his voice, looking anxiously at the door. "I need you to start work on a vegetarian blood substitute—make as much of it as you can. And fast, because I'm starving."

Renfield stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. "Ah, well. Now that you mention it, I'm pretty sure I have a recipe for soya blood floating around somewhere." He grinned, his unsightly teeth glinting in the dim light. "One batch of blood, coming right up. Shouldn't be more than an hour, if all goes well. I'll knock on your door when the first batch is ready."

Vlad sagged in relief. It was the best news he'd heard all day. "Thank you, Renfield. I mean it—you've saved my hide."

"Consider it a birthday gift."

Robin grinned, shoving Vlad playfully in the shoulder. "Bloody brilliant, isn't it? Pun intended."

Vlad felt top of the world. Not even Robin's horrible sense of humor could ruin it. He grabbed him, roughing up his hair, and laughed as his captive howled in distress.

"What have you done? I need a mirror." Robin reached under Vlad's arm, grabbing a jar of eyeballs off a nearby shelf, and peered at the glass, turning it from side to side to find the best angle. Vlad pulled the jar away, shaking his head and grinning like a fool.

He couldn't remember the last time he felt so carefree. He took in Robin's wrinkled nose and scowling mouth; eyed those ridiculous freckles.

He was so pleased, he could even….

Could… what?

His gut had that funny lurching feeling again. He let go of Robin's shoulders. It was probably just the hunger.

He nodded at Renfield. "This might actually be a good birthday, after all, thanks to you," he said. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. "Come on, Robin, let's go celebrate."


As they left, the two of them jostling each other as they raced down the hall, neither of them noticed a dark figure enter the lab from the opposite end.

Renfield slipped his mask back on, bending over to rummage around in his ingredients. "Soya base… dash of iron… just a hint of tapioca…."

Distracted, he placed the bottles on the table above his head. Bent as he was at the waist, with his head under the worktable, he didn't notice the well-manicured hand that grabbed the jar of soya base from the table, upending a small bottle of dark fluid into it in one smooth motion.

Renfield froze as he heard a small clink above him, and straightened, bumping his head on the underside of the table. He blinked, checking his work area for spills, surprised to find none.

He squinted at the soya base. He could have sworn he'd put the jar on his left, not the right…. But, glancing around, and seeing that the room was empty except for him, he shrugged.

Ah, well. He put a pot of water on heat, grabbing a glass of Transylvanian beetle shells off the shelf and staring at it thoughtfully.

Renfield reached in, popping a handful into his mouth. "To taste," he muttered happily, dumping the rest into the pot.