When Vlad awoke, his world was black.

He rubbed at his eyes, disoriented, until his elbows knocked loudly into a hard something just inches above his head. Oh, right. I sleep in a coffin, now.

He sighed, cracking his neck, and pushed at the lid. His vision was irritatingly slow to adjust to the red glow given off by his alarm clock.

When he could see again, he checked the time. It was just after two AM.

He yawned and stretched, grinning as he spotted his sawdust-stuffed hellhound snoozing by the door. "Zoltan!" he called out softly.

The canine opened one glowing red eye. "Good evening, Master Vlad."

"Good evening." Vlad felt unaccountably chipper—perhaps he had needed the sleep more than he realized.

"Your father wishes to speak with you," the hellhound murmured from his spot on the ground.

Vlad gulped, good cheer souring at the reminder. "Right," he said. Well, he had known he'd have to face him eventually.

He cracked his knuckles, wondering how long he'd be grounded for this time—and froze, as a new possibility occurred to him.

Had Will told the Count about Robin? If so, Vlad would never hear the end of it.

He felt a migraine coming on. He cursed under his breath, squeezing the bridge of his nose. Next time, he'd make sure to feed somewhere other than the castle.

He blinked, considering. Would there be a next time?

Dangerous thought. Vlad tugged at his shorts, decidedly uncomfortable. He steadfastly focused his mind's eye on the image of Renfield in a French maid's outfit, lest his thoughts begin to wander in an even more dangerous direction.

That seemed to help matters considerably. He grimaced.

"All right, let's get this over with," he said finally, eyeing the hellhound. "Where is he?"


The Count paced the length of the crypt, for once not sure how best to broach his son's least favorite subject—blood.

He'd tried arguing and pleading with the boy. And now, Vlad's transformation had lost him his favorite bargaining chip; he could hardly threaten to pull Vlad out of school. He'd have to try something new. Something that even a strong-willed teenage vampire could understand.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps.

"Come in," he called into the hallway. His son's face appeared around the corner, his expression satisfyingly cowed.

"You wanted to talk to me?" he replied, stepping into the candlelight.

"Yes. I wanted to speak to you about a potentially difficult subject. It's… well, when a young vampire comes of age, his body goes through certain changes. One of them is, of course, overwhelming bloodlust, which tends to be very easily confused for—ah, feelings of a romantic nature."

"Oh, Dad; please don't," Vlad pleaded, and the Count cursed. "Not the talk."

"It's not what you think," he insisted. His son crossed his arms, staring glumly at the floor.

Vlad, for his part, was doing his best to rein in any outward signs of panic. He knows. He has to know.

"Actually—I wanted to tell you about my transformation."

Vlad looked up. "Your transformation?" he managed, not sure he'd heard him right.

"Yes," the Count agreed. "There's something I haven't told you, and I think it might help you to hear it."

Vlad waited, curious. His father resumed pacing the length of the stone floor.

Finally, after what felt like ages, the Count paused under a wall sconce, staring into the flames with a faraway look.

"When I was a child… well, I was always excited to be a vampire, growing up. Until about two years before my transformation."

Vlad stared. Then stared some more. This time, he was positive he'd heard him incorrectly.

The Count seemed agitated. "When I was fourteen, I fell in love with a breather girl—she was the daughter of a priest, and lived in the town near my family's castle. Her name was Juliana." He glanced briefly at Vlad's slack-jawed expression, and continued. "The two of us met in secret once a week. For those two years, we were inseparable. My father hated the villagers, and once, when he found us together by the castle gates, he forbid me from ever interacting with breathers again. But I couldn't bear to be apart from her." His eyes took on a faraway look. "Her voice was like that of an angel—she used to sing to me, you know. That was what first drew me to her." The Count crossed to a nearby tomb cover, sitting gingerly and patting the spot next to him. Dumbstruck, Vlad obliged, unable to speak.

"Three nights before the eve of my sixteenth birthday, the two of us made a plan to run away together. I resolved never to drink a drop of human blood, and forget everything my father had ever taught me about what it meant to be a vampire. He had always lectured to me about 'destiny', and about how I was a disgrace to my Dracula heritage. But I didn't listen to him. The night before my sixteenth birthday, Juliana and I eloped."

Vlad was entranced. "What happened?"

The Count shook his head. "It was… disastrous, to say the least. Though I had run away from my obligations, and from the blood mirror, the transformation still pulled at my soul. Every night, in my dreams, while I slept in Ana's arms, my reflection called to me. Some nights, I would awake only to find myself back on the steps of the castle. As if beckoned by destiny."

"You mean… you didn't transform right away?"

The Count cocked his head. "The transformation wasn't completely prevented… I would say it was..." the Count waved a hand; "more, delayed. I was without my fangs, but after only a week, I began to smoke in the presence of sunlight. I was forced into the shadows. Juliana did her best to protect me from the suspicions of the nearby villagers. They had started to wonder, you see, as Juliana surely did herself, why I never showed my face during the day.

"But the worst part was definitely the hunger. After a month, even to sleep by Ana's side was agony. I despised myself, for wanting her in that way, but also couldn't bear the thought of leaving her." The Count looked wistful.

"After all that time, I had never told her the real source of my 'illness'. In my arrogance, I had convinced myself I would never need to reveal the truth about what I was. I was determined to avoid the transformation through force of will alone. But underneath it all, was the fear. I was… well, I was afraid that Ana would see me as a monster."

The Count shuddered at the memory. "Meanwhile, my father was accosting and killing villagers by the dozens in the nearby towns, desperate to find me and bring me home. I knew, of course, that my time was running out, and that at any moment my precious Ana could be discovered, and destroyed."

Vlad shook his head, completely mesmerized by the tale. He had never seen this side of his father. "What did you do? In the end?"

The Count laced his fingers together under his chin. "I did what I thought was right. I couldn't hypnotize her, of course—I was in love—but I did the next best thing. I told her I had tired of her, and never wanted to see her face again. And then… I went home."

The Count turned to him, his eyes pleading. "You have to understand. The hunger had become all consuming. The mirror was calling to me every night, and I knew it was just a matter of time before it accomplished its dark purpose. I couldn't allow myself to hurt her."

Vlad looked at his hands, which had clenched into fists at some point during his father's story. "So, you saved her, over your own happiness."

It seemed that he and the Count might be more alike than he'd thought.

"Yes. But what I realized," the Count added, voice passionate, "after meeting with the mirror, and seeing the evil spirit that was to consume me, was that my love for her was the very source of the strength that allowed me to let her go. Never once did I touch a hair on her head, after that. Not one hair," he repeated. "And, I realized something else. My father had been right all along.

His father smiled sadly. "What future could the two of us have had? A vampire and a breather? Lovers? Of course, I could have turned her, but people tend to… change, once they turn. You saw what it did to your cousin." The Count shook his head, expression wistful. "No; I loved her just the way she was."

Vlad nodded. "I understand." And for once, he really, really did. He gazed wonderingly at his father, as if seeing him for the first time. "Why are you telling me this now?" he asked at last, when the silence had grown heavy.

The Count looked torn. "I wanted you to understand… I know how hard it is to have to grow up." He hesitated. "I also know you care… deeply for your breather friend. But starving yourself of human blood is no way to protect him."

Vlad was startled. Did his father really not know about the blood?

After hearing his father bare his soul, Vlad was sorely tempted to tell his father everything. But he could hardly tell him truth about biting Robin without also explaining why Robin hadn't yet joined the ranks of the living dead. And what would the Count make of the amulet?

His father interrupted his thoughts. "I had hoped that if I prevented you from associating with breathers, you'd avoid my fate. But it seems history has a way of repeating." He sighed at the look on Vlad's face. "I won't forbid you from seeing Robin, if that's what you're worried about." He grimaced. "As if it would stop you."

Vlad's lip quirked. "It wouldn't."

"But I will say this. Please, for your own sake, and for his, consider giving up your moratorium on blood. If breathers and vampires are like oil and water, then cravings and breathers are oil and fire. If you… care for him, you'll tend to your own needs first. Before you end up doing something you regret."

For possibly the first time in his life, Vlad found himself genuinely moved by his father's plea. "Thank you," he said, looking his father in the eye. "Actually, I think I may have found a way around that particular problem."

The Count groaned. "Not this vegetarian business again…."

"No, it's not that," Vlad countered. Inspiration struck. "I was going to say, I've… I've changed my mind. I tried the soya blood, and it was no good, after all. I've been stealing from your private stores." He looked at his lap, hoping his father would buy it. "I didn't want you to find out. I'm sorry."

"Vlad," the Count grabbed his shoulder. "Are you telling me you… want to drink human blood?"

Vlad nodded, doing his best to ignore the stab of guilt at his father's look of adoration. "But I'm not ready to go hunting, yet," he added quickly. "I don't want to kill anyone."

The Count clapped his hands. "Never mind that! This calls for a celebration!"

"No!" Vlad pulled at his father's cape. "Please, don't. I'm still… working through how I feel about all of this. I don't want to draw attention to myself. Please understand?"

The Count pouted. "But, Vladdy…."

"Promise you won't tell anyone? Especially Ingrid."

The Count shuddered. "Of course not, that would require talking to her."

Vlad felt some of his guilt lesson at his father's pig-headedness. "Dad. Let me do this on my own schedule." The Count seemed close to giving in, so he ramped up the charm. "Aren't you pleased I'm drinking blood at all? And human blood, at that."

The Count nodded. "Yes, that much is obviously an improvement." He frowned. "Although, as long as you're taking the moral high ground, don't you think it's a bit hypocritical to drink blood you're not willing to kill for yourself?" He leaned in, shooting Vlad an evil grin. "I can personally assure you, the blood in those stores didn't come from willing victims."

Damn. His father actually had a point, for once. And how ironic, that Vlad's only 'victim' so far had been all-too willing, and that that of all things was the very source of his problem!

But what to tell his father? He grimaced at the Count. "I know, but I just can't stomach the idea of hurting innocent people. I think it'll be easier, at least at first, if… I don't have to think about it." He shuddered. There—that sounded much more like himself.

His answer seemed to placate the Count.

"Well," he said, standing. "The night is still young. If you won't let me spread the good news, surely you'll allow me to propose a toast, just between the two of us?"

Vlad wilted. There was no way he'd be able to get out of this one. He plastered a smile across his face. "Um, just you and me? Sure, I guess…."

The Count cheered. "Excellent! Stay right here, I'll go fetch a bottle of my finest 18th century composer—oh, but should it be German or Italian? Renfield!"

The Count skipped from the room, muttering gleefully under his breath. Vlad hid his head in his hands.

Of course, there was nothing he wanted less than to toast his father with 18th century anyone. He swore. How did he get himself into these situations? He didn't want blood from a bottle. And he didn't care how fancy it was—all he really wanted was Robin's.

Preferably, fresh from the source.

He sighed. Perhaps he should tell his father the truth? Still, even Chloe didn't know what that amulet was capable of. In the wrong hands, it might wreak unimaginable havoc and destruction. And as much as Vlad hated being a vampire, he knew he couldn't risk hurting his family due to mere moral discomfort over lying to his father.


The Count returned with two glasses and a tall, dusty brown bottle, whistling to himself. He popped the cork, using the casket they'd been sitting on as a table as he poured the thick dark liquid into the glasses, smiling wickedly at Vlad all the while.

"Finally," his father announced with a conspiratorial wink as he finished, "my son has accepted his destiny as a Dracula."

The Count handed one of the glasses to Vlad, taking the other for himself. Vlad swirled the glass's contents, trying his best to look eager at the prospect of drinking it.

Sure, it smelled appetizing enough. And though a year ago he would have gagged at the sight, now his mouth even watered in anticipation.

Still. Robin's smelled better.

He shot a tight-lipped smile at his father, who was beaming at him expectantly. Vlad cleared his throat, raising his glass. "To… what are we toasting, exactly?"

The Count shook his head in amusement. "My dear boy, we're toasting your future as a vampire, of course." He raised his own glass. "To Vladimir Dracula, my son and heir; may he grow into a powerful, fully-realized member of vampire society, and finally accept his true nature as the Prince of Darkness!"

Vlad grimaced. "Do you always have to call it that?" But his father ignored him. They clinked their glasses, the Count downing half his cup in one gulp.

Vlad brought the rim of the glass to his lips, and took a cautious sip. He smacked his lips at the taste. It was pretty good. Not fantastic, but good. Drinkable.

The Count sighed. "Well, what do you think? Leaps and bounds better than sheep's blood, in any case."

Vlad shrugged, momentarily tongue-tied. "I—well, it's pretty good," he amended, when the Count pulled a face. Vlad sighed. "I'm sorry, it's just…. I think I need some time to think about what you've told me."

The Count bowed his head, expression growing more serious. "Of course. Take all the time you need—I hope I've given you some good food for thought." He pointed a finger at his son. "Remember. If you really care about that breather friend of yours, you'll consider what I've said."

Vlad nodded tightly. It was strangely similar to what Ingrid had told him. "Thank you, again—you know, for telling me about when you were younger. That must have brought up some difficult memories."

The Count waved him off. "I'd always meant to tell you, once you were old enough to understand." He patted Vlad's shoulder fondly. "I'm proud of you, you know. And I know you'll make the right decision in the end. After all, you are a Dracula."