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Kiss Of Darkness
Heather Graham
A kiss of darkness. A kiss of death.The woods have always been full of whispers in Transylvania, of terrors that go back centuries to the legendary Vlad Dracul himself. Ignoring their professor's grave warning—beware those who would prey upon the innocent—several visiting students travel into the forest…and disappear.Now their professor, Bryan McAllister, believes that a dark cult is at work—and that their next gathering will happen in America. When psychologist Jessica Fraser is approached by Bryan for her assistance, she is hesitant. Something about Bryan unnerves Jessica deeply, yet she cannot ignore the incredible pull she feels toward him.Now, as reluctant allies, they unite to seek the truth. The search takes them from the forested mountains to dimly lit clubs in New Orleans' French Quarter, where perversion goes beyond sexual to life-threatening. And everywhere, whispering on the wind, is the dreaded word…vampyr.


HEATHER GRAHAM
Kiss of Darkness


To Rich Devin, Lance Taubold, Ripper,
Eddy and Jack (and, okay, the duck!),
to Tammy and Brian Russotto and Little Sly,
and Laura Mills-Alcott,

With love and thanks.

And very especially to Bayley Crow—
flooded out by Katrina to meet
Rita and Wilma down in south Florida!
—and her folks,
and the incredible city of New Orleans.

Thanks!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
About the Author
Coming Next Month
Please visit New Orleans. This wonderful city,
with its unique heritage, still needs our help.
The Gulf area in general remains desperate,
but we can help by pouring our tourist dollars into
the shops, restaurants and hotels of this region.

Prologue
The land was drenched with blood, after years of desperate fighting, and there would be more.
The knight sat atop his horse at the side of his king, watching as the troops rode through the valley below. Behind them rode Father Gregore, the warrior priest who had so often accompanied the new king on his quest to obtain and hold his domain, murmuring in Latin.
The king cursed softly. “Damn them. So many,” he added, turning to his knight. “After all these years, the feeble son feels he must prove himself to be the equal of his father. Sweet Jesu, will we forever be fighting this scourge? If the invaders reach the village, we will see a savagery beyond anything we have witnessed yet, not to show strength, as it might have been with the father, but because he longs to give the lie to his very weakness.” He spoke with disgust and a hard-won right to bitterness.
The breeze shifted, bringing with it a chill. The knight looked up, noting the sky. Darkness would come early, and according to the priest it would come earlier still today, for what Father Gregore called the Demon Moon would be upon them that night. Gregore was a great astronomer, as well as a healer. Many men had survived the field of battle because of his prowess.
Gregore was an interesting man, to say the least. He had studied for the priesthood in Rome. His father had been a highlander, an ambassador to the papal court. His mother, according to local legend, had been a witch.
Father Gregore had acted strangely throughout the day, cursing and muttering much more than usual. Now, as they assessed their enemy’s strength and planned their defense, he seemed stranger still. The knight respected the priest, though he was wary of his many incantations, intoned in a language bearing no resemblance to anything the knight had ever heard. A chill ran up his spine—an unusual sensation. He had faced ruthless enemies on the field again and again. He had watched his kinsmen and friends fall. Long ago, he had set his mind to the task with the knowledge he could never look anywhere but straight ahead, that there could be nothing but the fight for freedom to guide them.
“He rides with the Devil’s own henchman,” Father Gregore muttered savagely.
The knight forced the sounds of the priest’s voice from his mind and focused on the scene below. He pointed to the glen and the river, and the great tor beyond. “There,” he said softly. “There is where we must stop them.”
“They’ll attack by day,” the king mused.
“I don’t think we dare make that supposition,” the knight said.
The king sat very still. “My household rests in that glen.”
The knight was very aware of that, as well as the fact that the king had a number of illegitimate children. He had married for love; his bride had braved her own family’s disapproval for her husband. But there had been long times when they had been parted.
One of the king’s by blood, a daughter, had quite recently come of age. She attended the queen, who bore her no malice. Like her father, she was fierce, loyal and dauntless. Like her mother, late of the Isle of Skye, she was beautiful. She was adept with a small bow, and had used her weapon successfully against the enemy. Her wit was as quick as her shot. Bold with her laugher, her ability to tease and seduce, she epitomized everything the knight fought for: the fierce, wild spirit of the land. A challenge, proud and independent, she had captured his mind along with his heart. Sometimes, sleeping on the rocky ground, he closed off the sounds of the night and the smell of blood. He felt himself seduced anew in his mind, a hint of the scent of her skin and the feel of her flesh teasing him in his dreams.
He turned to the king. “They will not wait.” He pointed skyward to the rising moon. “It’s Father Gregore’s Demon Moon. They will see by its light, crimson and shadowed as that may be.”
The king gasped suddenly and caught the warrior’s arm. The knight looked down to the glen below, and his breath caught, as had his liege’s. There was suddenly a great burst of laughter among the men there as what had apparently been a small scouting party made a triumphant return. Horses burst through the pass, hooves pounding, the riders shouting loudly enough to be heard by the force looking down on them.
“A prize. A prize for our great king!” a man roared.
And then the knight saw. The king’s daughter Igrainia, his own true love, bruised and muddied, straight and defiant still, was seated before one of the raiders, who shoved her from the horse at the feet of the very man who was now their most hated enemy. Yet thrown hard, the wind knocked from her, she rose quickly, her chin high as she looked into the eyes of their foe.
Their enemy stared at the girl, then at his men. “The others?” he inquired.
“Dead,” the rider said, and spat. “At her hands.”
“And the queen?”
“Escaped—while this one mowed down our men.”
“And the so-called king of these outlaws?”
“Nowhere to be found.”
The enemy king, sly though not brave, cruel if not strong, assessed her, then looked around slowly. He raised his voice high, shouting so his words were an echo in the strange and eerie light that already seemed to be rising around them. “She shall die a traitor’s death! By the full rise of the moon, she shall die.”
The knight’s horse pawed at the earth of the cliff. The king again set a hand upon his arm. “Hold.”
“I will go alone,” the knight said. It felt as if his blood were boiling.
“Demon Moon,” the priest muttered behind him. “She is lost already.”
The knight ignored him. “I will not let her die without a fight,” he told the king. “She is your flesh and blood. Too many times she has risked herself to save others. I cannot let her die without a fight.”
“You cannot die needlessly. They know that we are near, that we are listening,” the king said. “We must plan.”
The knight looked at the king. “There is a way.” He pointed out the river, which was but a rill upstream, the jagged cliffs opposite their position. The cairns to the northwest, where they could escape through labyrinths, the enemy could not know.
The king listened gravely. Other nobles and knights came closer. The plan was decided.
“Pay heed,” Father Gregore demanded suddenly.
The king looked up, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He gave the orders to his men to circle to their positions, then rode to the edge of the cliff again.
The knight followed him. His stomach quickened.
Below, they were playing a taunting game with the king’s daughter, tossing her from man to man. She didn’t cry out. Her life had taught her stoicism.
A man grabbed her, pulled her close, then let out a scream as she bit his lip and kneed his groin. “My God, I’ll kill her!” he shrieked, drawing his sword.
The enemy king laughed. “So quickly? You are no match for her. But we ride this night with one who is.”
“The Devil’s own appears,” Gregore muttered. “But you must hold,” he warned the knight.
The enemy king lifted a hand as, from the throng of cavalry and foot soldiers, strode a man. He was taller than others, a black cloak around his shoulders and a painted black helm upon his head. He walked with confidence, approaching the girl.
The knight’s blood quickened; he gritted his teeth, fighting desperately for control.
This man had long been a servant of the enemy. The knight had met him in battle before, knew that at least once, he had inflicted grave damage upon him.
He remembered when they had last met. They had fought savagely, so savagely that he had believed he had killed his opponent, for he had managed a thrust to the throat. He had seen the blood gush and spill, the man fall, his life choking from him, his final words a curse and a vow that revenge would be his.
But rumor said that his foe had refused to die. That he had called upon Satan himself for succor.
Some whispered that Satan had sent one of his concubines to the earl. That she had given him a kiss, and therein sealed his pact with the Devil. He had not died, and the word that went across the country—terrifying his friends, it was said, as well as his foes—was that he had become invincible.
He was referred to now, in tones of awe and fear, as the Master.
And now that loathsome being had the king’s daughter in his power.
She would fight. The knight knew this in his heart. A feeling like death itself stole his breath. She would fight, and she would die. He had no prayer of reaching her, of perishing in her defense.
But she did not fight; she made no move. She merely stared at the damned warrior as he approached.
The man lifted his helm, his face shaded by the growing red moon. He seized the girl, drew her close beneath his cloak.
Suddenly she came to life. She screamed and raged, fought hard and somehow drew away, clasping her neck. With stunning speed, she stole the sword from the noble at the king’s left side. She swung it high and strong, despite its staggering weight. The cloaked man moved back; the warrior at his side was not so quick, and he died in agony.
Before she could strike again, a dozen men were upon her. She was instantly captured and bound, dragged to a tree, where faggots were quickly set. All the while, she swore in defiance. She cursed those who would murder her. “You will die,” she promised the enemy king. “You, too, will die in an agony of fire. Your insides will burn, as your soul races toward the fires of an eternal hell!” she shouted.
The black-cloaked figure turned, staring at the surrounding countryside. “See, Ioin? My power is greater now than any you will ever know. She is mine. Come, save her now, if you dare.”
The fire was lit.
Father Gregore crossed himself, muttered a prayer and drew his sword.
The knight knew he could wait no longer. He would defy the king.
But atop the tor, the king gave the signal to his haggard army.
And from the heights, they rode down upon the enemy. Battle cries split the air, and they rode like the berserkers, those maddened Viking raiders whose blood ran in the veins of so many there. The enemy outnumbered them, but they were part of the land beneath their feet, and many of those who rode with the enemy were paid for their services and had no heart for the battle.
The knight could smell the fire.
And in his mind, he heard her cry his name. It wasn’t a cry for help, but one of loss, of sadness beyond life, beyond the grave. In reply, he called out her name, and his fury created a sound like thunder and seemed to shake the earth. He strode through death, defying it, ignoring it. He reached the tree and burst through the flames, ignoring the scorching of his own flesh. He slashed through the ties that bound her, and she fell, still, silent…lifeless…into his arms.
A roar of pure rage escaped him. He looked for the cloaked man, but did not see him.
The enemy rushed him, and he was forced to lay her down. He sensed the death at his back, and he turned, raised his sword, parried and slashed without stopping.
He felt the darkness, deep, overwhelming. Crimson. He spun once more, ready to swing with wearied arms, fighting the burning in his muscles.
But there was no one. Nothing. And she…
She was gone.
The enemy swept closer again, and, stunned, he was nearly taken. Only instinct saved him. He turned in time to smite his opponent, and the battle grew ever more frenzied. He fought on, heedless, his mind numbed.
Swords clashed again and again. Battle-axes split skulls. Soon the footing was treacherous, blood mingling with the dirt. Then came the blast of a horn, and the battle paused. The man before the knight smiled—just before he died. Then, keening on the breeze, came the eerie sound of unholy laughter.
It had been a trap. A trap from the beginning. They had seen only a fraction of the troops riding with the enemy. More were arriving, storming through the pass.
The knight turned in time to slash the throat of the infantryman behind him, who had meant to stab him through the back. He saw the king, and rational thought took over once again. He strode over blood, bodies, limbs, and reached the place where the king fought. Savagely, he battled by his ruler’s side, willing to fight unto death, until he was overwhelmed.
Because death would be welcome. She was dead, his soul cried. Dead and gone. All that was left was to find her remains.
“Go!” the knight roared above the clash of steel. A cohort was there with a horse. The king’s followers thrust him behind themselves, forcing him to the horse. A pipe played, and the defenders began to slip away, heading for the caves and tunnels they knew so well. The battle continued to rage. They could not all escape; someone had to remain so the others might survive to fight another day.
The knight looked up briefly. The moon was full in the sky, as red as the bloody field around him. The mist that had fallen was the same crimson shade. It was as if he stood in a fog of blood. And in his heart and mind, he was dead already.
His time had come. He did not damn God or fate. She was lost, and he could only pray that there was indeed a heaven, that he would find her there. He had killed, true, but his cause had been a righteous one.
He closed his eyes for a split second, then opened them, roared out a warning and strode into the melee.
They fell before him, man after man. He knew his rage at that moment was not for the future, not for a dream.
It was for her.
He didn’t know if blood or sweat dripped into his eyes, for he moved in a red haze. He was dimly aware of someone near him, the sound of an incantation.
And then a blow against his head sent him down, spiraling into darkness, an endless bloodred night.

He opened his eyes. There was darkness, there was shadow.
There was sensation.
He hadn’t expected this. Had God spurned him?
Warmth surrounded him. He heard the crackling of a fire. He blinked and realized he was not dead after all.
A massive shadow loomed on the wall, then resolved itself into Father Gregore. The man came to his side, bringing water. The knight swallowed, his head cradled by the powerful hand of the strange priest.
“The battle…?” he asked.
“It is over. Long over,” the priest said. “Sip slowly.”
The knight looked around. They were in a cave. He couldn’t tell if it was morning or evening, early or late. He knew only that the red mist was gone. Gone, too, was the scent of scorched flesh, the awful smell of blood and death.
Gone, too, was the woman he had loved.
“How long have I been here?” the knight asked.
“A very long time.”
“My lady…I took her from the fire. And then she was gone. I’ve got to find her.”
The priest looked at him, studying him for a long time. “Yes, you do,” he said softly.
“I must hurry,” the knight muttered.
The priest stopped him. “You must heal.”
“But…I have to find her.”
“A little more time won’t matter,” the priest said, and sat back. The glow of the fire touched his features. “You have to help me heal you. I am not entirely a miracle worker. There will be time.”
“But she is in danger.”
“Yes. She is your quest. Her immortal soul cries out.”
“Then—”
“There is time, my son. Much has happened. There’s much I must tell you. Much you must learn.”
The fire snapped and crackled and the knight looked into the priest’s eyes….
It was only then that he began to understand.

1
Jessica Fraser listened to the music, the cool jazz tones. She had closed her eyes, and despite the voices, the scraping of chairs and clinking of glasses, she could filter everything else out and hear the music. She wished she could just give way to it, forget the night, forget work and her upcoming flight—even the very good friends surrounding her. From the moment she had first come to New Orleans, years ago now, she had been in love not just with the city’s sense of history and pulsing life, but with the sounds, especially the music. Tonight, for a few minutes, closing her eyes, she was alone. All she could feel was the music, as if it had entered her body and soul, and soothed her.
Of course, few people actually considered Bourbon Street to be soothing.
Yet even as she listened to the music, savoring the feeling of calm, a sense that all was not well startled her. She opened her eyes and looked around, plagued by a sudden and yet very disturbing feeling that she was being watched.
“Hey, did you hear me?” Maggie Canady asked, nudging Jessica.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“What you need to design,” Maggie said, “is a bathing suit for people with a little more body than they want to show.”
“Oh, Maggie, just get one of those tankini things,” put in Stacey LeCroix, who helped Jessica with both her B and B and the designing she did, both sidelines, since Jessica’s real livelihood came as a practicing psychologist. Stacey was young, cute and thin as a reed.
Maggie sighed. “Honey, a tankini doesn’t do a thing in the world for too much rear and thunder thighs.”
Jessica couldn’t help but laugh as she looked across the table at Sean Canady, Maggie’s husband, a tall, well-built man who combined a look of complete authority with a handsome, strikingly rugged face, an asset in his job as a cop. “Please tell your wife she doesn’t have thunder thighs.”
Sean pushed back a thatch of thick blond hair and looked at his wife. “Maggie, you don’t have thunder thighs.”
It was a curious complaint, coming from Maggie, who tended to be far more serious and spent her time worrying about the fate of the world. She had been much occupied in the past months dealing with problems in the parish, the “coming back,” as they called it, of New Orleans. On top of that, she was a stunning woman with burnished auburn hair and hazel eyes that seemed to flash with gold. She was usually last person to feel insecure about her appearance. Maggie knew there were real evils in the world, but she tried not to worry about the possibilities—natural and otherwise—unless she had to.
Maggie sighed deeply. “Who knows? Maybe I just gained a bit more thigh with each of our three children. But I dream of a comfortable, good-looking bathing suit. Jessica, can’t you come up with something? Hey, Jessica—are you with us?”
Jessica started; she had been looking around, certain she would find someone watching her. But no one seemed the least bit interested in her or her table.
Maybe it was just the odd restlessness that had settled over her before she had even reached the club tonight, a restlessness she hadn’t been able to understand.
“Um…of course.” Jessica said, forcing her attention back to the conversation. “If you want a bathing suit that covers more of you, I can certainly design one for you.”
“It’s going to make for a really weird tan line,” Stacey warned.
Jessica looked at her assistant. Stacey was wonderful. She was a fireball of energy, just over five feet tall, but confident and even fiercely assertive at times—assertive, not aggressive, Stacey had once told her.
“This whole conversation is…” Jessica began, but caught herself before saying inane. She winced, wondering at the impatience she was feeling. It was as if she needed to be somewhere, doing something, but she had no idea where or what. Maybe she was just on edge about heading out to the conference.
Jessica turned to see a man heading toward them. Bobby Munro, Stacey’s latest boyfriend, was one of Sean’s fellow cops, tall, dark-haired and good looking.
He nodded at Sean. “Lieutenant.”
“Bobby, I thought you had to work,” Stacey said.
“I do, private party, around the corner,” Bobby said. “I just came to wish Jessica a good trip. And say hello to you, of course.” He stood behind Stacey, bent down and kissed the top of her head, then looked at Jessica. “You be careful, huh?”
Jessica groaned.
“It’s just a conference,” she said. She considered asking the others if they had been seized by any strange feelings, if they felt that eyes were secretively scrutinizing their every move, but forced herself not to. Sean was a cop, for God’s sake. If he saw or even felt anything, he would certainly say so. She was just on edge because going to a conference in Romania wasn’t exactly her usual thing.
Bobby waved and left, and once he was gone, Sean leaned forward again.
“You’re awfully tense for someone heading off to a simple professional conference,” he said. “Hell, Jessica…it’s a foreign country.”
“It’s not a trip into the deepest jungle, Sean. Romania is very much a part of the modern world,” she said.
“We should be going with you.”
Jessica waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I—” Stacey began.
“I need you here to take care of things. I’m just going to a conference.”
“Still,” Sean observed, “you’re awfully tense. Do you want a drink?”
“I’m not tense,” Jessica informed him quickly. Yes, she realized, she was. She had practically snapped at Sean. She was tense—and she had no idea why. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…” She stared at her friends. She just couldn’t sit still any longer. She stood suddenly, feigning a yawn. “Guys, excuse me, will you? I leave tomorrow, and I guess I’m a little on edge.”
“I knew it.” Sean said. “You are worried about your trip.”
“No, just antsy, I guess. But I think I’ll head home,” Jessica said.
“I think I’ll leave, too,” Stacey said, rising. “It’s too bad you’re not going on a real vacation. You need one. You aren’t yourself tonight. Maybe psychologists need psychologists more than anyone else. Maybe you should be taking a trip to a mountain cabin. This is just more pressure, and very strange. I mean, seriously, who ever heard of a psychologists’ convention in Romania?”
“I’m an experienced traveler, so don’t worry about me. This will be almost like a vacation, I’ll do all kinds of wonderful touristy things,” Jessica assured her.
“Will you go to Dracula’s castle, walk in the mist-shrouded woods and listen for werewolves?” Maggie asked.
“Exactly,” Jessica said, smiling. “I’ll be back in a week.”
Sean laughed. “I hardly think Jessica needs to worry about vampires and werewolves. For God’s sake, she’s from New Orleans, land of voodoo—and all the crazies who think they’re zombies and vampires.”
“He has a point,” Jessica assured Maggie.
“I know, it’s just that…I don’t know. I just don’t like it.”
“I’m going, and it’s going to be a great experience. I’m grateful you all care. I love you, and good night.” Jessica hugged them all, then left, walking past the stage on her way out. She lifted a hand and waved to Big Jim, the trumpet player.
He was a huge man, his skin was like ebony, yet he played his instrument with a delicacy that belied his size. There was an angel’s touch in his music. He also had great instincts about people and situations, perhaps handed down by his family, many of whom were known in the local voodoo community.
Like Sean and Maggie, he’d befriended her when she’d first moved to the parish. He looked at her now, shaking his head with a sigh. Then he quietly mouthed the words to her, “Be careful.”
She mouthed in reply, “Always.”
He still didn’t look happy. But then, Big Jim’s mother had been a voodoo priestess, and he was a definite believer that things weren’t always what they seemed. She lowered her head, hiding the secret grin that teased her lips. Bless him. He was such a good guy. Just like a big brother.
Band member Barry Larson, lanky, in his thirties, a transplant from somewhere in the Midwest, covered his mike with his free hand. “Hey, gorgeous. You have a good trip and come home safe, okay?”
“Of course.”
He smiled deeply. He was nice, a little bit geeky. She’d been afraid when she first met him that he’d had something of a crush on her, but he’d never said anything and over time had become a good friend.
She left the club, glad that the French Quarter was back to its busy, even a little bit crazy, self. It was just around eleven, a time when the streets were at their busiest. She quickly walked the three blocks to her house, then, at her gates, paused for a minute. There was a stirring in the air. Rain tomorrow, she thought, and looked up at the sky.
She didn’t like what she saw. As she hurried toward the front door, she reminded herself that Gareth Miller was in the cottage at the rear, once the old smokehouse. Gareth was great. In return for a place to live, he kept an eye on the place, and on her and Stacey. He was a quiet man, kind of like a reticent hippie, with his slight slouch and longish, clean but unkempt hair.
He was another of the good friends she’d made here, and her home was safe in his keeping.
Even so, she paused again halfway up the walkway, staring heavenward. Again the sense of urgency assailed her, a feeling that she needed to be moving quickly.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I do need a real vacation, she thought. Or maybe I’m just losing my mind.
She almost laughed aloud at the idea of a vacation when she was feeling this terrible need to hurry, to get ahead of something….
Of someone?
Too bad. There was nothing she could do about it now. The plane would leave the next day, and she would be on it.

Jessica couldn’t sleep. She lay on her bed, strangely aware of time passing.
In the middle of the night, she walked outside to her balcony, which faced the street. She loved her house, and it was sheer luck that she’d been able to buy it. Amazingly, the winds and flooding from hurricane Katrina that had devastated so much of the parish had done very little damage to the Quarter or her house. The house was quite large, and she was able to keep it because, with Stacey’s help, she ran it as a very selective bed-and-breakfast. Her practice, which she ran out of the house, was a good one; in psychology, she had found the perfect vocation. And, on the side, she designed one-of-a-kind costumes for various Mardi Gras krewes.
From a distance, she could very faintly hear the sounds of music and laughter, carried on the breeze from the French Quarter.
She looked at the sky again. Absurdly, it appeared as if there was a hint of red in the night air. A hint of red that seemed to grow stronger as she watched and the darkness seemed to take almost physical form around her.
“Ridiculous,” she told herself.
She imagined herself with a shrink. “I don’t actually see the dark…I feel it.”
For a moment, a chill seized her as the darkness seemed to loom, like a hint, a warning. A deep red darkness…
It made her feel as if she was being hunted. Stalked.
She stepped back into her room, locking the balcony doors, trying to fight the feeling.
But she was oddly afraid. As she hadn’t been in ages.
She stayed awake, staring at the sky, certain the darkness was turning a still deeper red as she watched.
Her friends had felt it, too, she thought. That was why they’ve been so nervous about her trip.
This was ridiculous, she told herself. When the conference had been announced, it had immediately intrigued her. And now she was committed to speak. She had to go, and that was that, even though her initial excitement was gone.
What the hell had changed? she wondered. Or was it all in her mind?
Suddenly, she felt dizzy. The world before her seemed to shift and change. She was no longer in her bedroom but outside, staring up at a high ridge, and atop the ridge stood a man. He was exceptionally tall, a cape billowing around him in the breeze.
And he was the epitome of evil.
Evil that was stalking her. An ancient evil that lurked somewhere in a strange and distant memory that couldn’t be.
The Master.
The name flashed unbidden to her mind. She banished it immediately.
The vision faded. She was home again, in her own room, the peace and beauty barely disturbed by distant sounds from the street, the scent of magnolia blossoms heavy on the air.
She was losing her mind, she told herself impatiently. She needed some sleep.

The next day, alighting in Romania, she felt a chill the minute her feet touched the ground.
A disembodied voice announced arrivals and departures in a multitude of languages. The bright lights of the airport were all around her.
Yet she felt as if the world had darkened behind her, as if a shadow were following her. As she walked toward Customs, she stopped, swinging around, certain that footsteps right behind her were closing in on her. Panic almost overwhelmed her. She was convinced she was being followed, that she could feel hot breath—fetid breath—at her nape. Chills shivered up her spine.
She thought she heard her name whispered by a deep, mocking voice.
But when she turned, there was no one near her. Busy people, bored, anxious, were hurrying through the airport. No one seemed interested in her at all.
It was night again before she reached her final destination. And there, in the exquisite historic hotel, she felt the darkness again as she walked to her room.
She locked the door securely behind her, then waited, afraid, watching the door, wanting to believe she had worked with one too many an antisocial paranoid and their fears had simply rubbed off on her.
Nothing.
She turned away.
Then there was a sound, a clicking, as if someone were trying the door. And again, the whisper in her mind of her name. And something more.
Laughter.
You can’t hide. Wherever you go, I will find you….

“Are you coming with us?” Mary demanded, her expression seductive as she sat on the edge of Jeremy’s bed at the former seventeenth-century monastery, now a youth hostel, where they were staying. “I can’t believe I got the invite. Some girl on the street just came up to me and started talking. It’s a private club. There’s not even a sign on the door. She says people will be there from all over Europe. It’s in the ruins of some old cathedral. There was a Hungarian couple in the café, and they said it’s almost impossible to get into the local club scene, especially the “castle” vampire parties. But I got an invitation. And get this. They supposedly brought in a famous dominatrix to be the hostess. Celebrities even come to Transylvania to show up at these parties. I guarantee you, it’s the coolest thing we’ll do all year.”
Mary was gorgeous, an energetic pixie with brilliant blue eyes and a cascade of wheat blond hair. Jeremy was old enough, however, to know that going out with him hadn’t suddenly become the focus of her life. She wanted to get into this club, but she was scared, and she wanted friends with her.
In high school, he might have dropped everything to do what she wanted. Though he’d never been a first-string player, he’d made his way onto the football team just because she was a cheerleader. He’d learned the guitar because she loved musicians. He’d never set out to be one of the in-crowd, but somehow, in his quest for her approval, he’d become one. He’d kept his own brand of morality, though, and that had somehow made him more desirable—to all the girls but Mary.
He had to admit, he’d chosen to attend Tulane, in New Orleans, largely because of her. But he was past that. He was twenty-two, ready to graduate—with honors—and either accept a decent job offer, or head off to grad school. He had gained four inches since his eighteenth birthday, and time spent in the college gym had actually given him shoulders and a chest. He was serious and studious, something Mary had always teased him about, but something other girls seemed to appreciate. Once, he had worshiped Mary, now he saw her from a clearer perspective, but he still loved her, just more realistically, so he’d agreed to join her on this trip for their last spring break. Still, this wasn’t exactly like visiting England, or even France or Italy.
This was Transylvania. They had started in Bucharest, explored Walachia before heading into Sighisoara and dining in the ancient home—now a restaurant—where Vlad Tepes, the man who’d become known as Dracula, had been born. They had strolled medieval towns, visited dozens of churches, heard about history and architecture. Their guides had all spoken English. The Romanians were no fools. Americans were willing to spend lots of money to travel, to feel a part of myth and mystery—and buy souvenirs.
There were twenty students in their group, and luckily everyone got on well. Even better, they had crossed paths with an international convention of psychologists a few days earlier, and one of them was Jessica Fraser, who he’d met when she’d given a lecture at school. She had spent her free afternoon with them, and even claimed to remember meeting him. He had to admit, he’d developed a little bit of a crush on her. In fact, compared to her, Mary had started to seem kind of shallow and not at all interesting.
He had an uneasy feeling about this invitation of hers, too. He’d heard a little about the kind of parties she was talking about. Rumor had it that on top of the usual bondage scene, they were run by a group of people who actually believed that they were vampires.
“Mary, I don’t like it.”
“Don’t be a wuss, Jeremy. I’m a journalism major. Think what I can do with this story.”
Mary’s idea of journalism had landed them in several uncomfortable situations already. For about six months, he’d had an out, because he’d gotten into a serious relationship with a pretty English major. But she’d left the school when her mother got sick, and never returned. They had called each other every night for a while. Then the calls had become fewer and fewer. Even their e-mails had dwindled, until they’d finally drifted completely apart.
So here he was in Transylvania, and here was Mary, ready to use him again. No, that wasn’t fair, he told himself. She’d always been a good friend.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
She laughed. “Oh, Jeremy. Come on. You’ve been mourning Melissa too long. What’s the matter? Are you afraid you might get laid?”
“Mary,” he murmured. He hated it when she talked that way, no matter how liberated the world was supposed to be.
“Please, Jeremy. I’ve read up the recent surge of private sex clubs—there was an article in the paper a few months back about one right in New Orleans. No sign on the door. People come from all over, because they can do what they want to do there.”
“Yeah. Have silly rituals and slice their thumbs and suck each other’s blood. That’s pathetic, Mary.”
“No, it’s not. No one is allowed to push anyone else into doing anything they don’t want to do. The woman who wrote the article said she wasn’t hit on as much there as at a bar.”
“Maybe she’s old and ugly. And if there was already an article—”
Mary sighed. “Jeremy, I want to take this story national. An exposé—what’s going on here and in the States. Look, I’m going, with or without you. I won’t be going alone. Nancy agreed to come. But we need a guy. I mean, we’d like to have a guy with us. And, if you don’t go, what are you going to do? Play some dumb computer game all night?”
“Mary, I designed that game, and it’s going to get me a good job.”
To his amazement, she took his hands, pleading. “I want this story so badly, Jeremy. Please.”
“All right, fine. I’ll go.”
She jumped up, a brilliant smile on her face. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Ever.”
“Listen, Mary, when I say we have to leave—”
“We leave. Fine. Now, quit worrying. I always land on my feet.”
“How do we get there?” he demanded.
“It’s too cool. We head up that path toward the mountain, and we get picked up by a carriage.” Mary shook her head, smiling. “I still don’t know why that girl invited me. I guess I’m just lucky.”
I guess you’re just beautiful, he thought.
But he wanted her to be happy, so he kept his mouth shut. He’d go, but he still didn’t like it.
He was still unhappy when Mary went to her room to change for the night. While she was gone, he went outside. The psychologists were all in the restored judicial palace across the street, now a four-star hotel.
He walked into the lobby and asked for Jessica Fraser, but she was already out for the evening.
What the hell was making him so uneasy?
Nervous enough that he wouldn’t dream of letting Mary go alone.
And nervous enough to dread the fact he was going to go.
He hesitated, then left a note.
A precaution.
Someone needed to know where they had gone.

2
In the shadows, PowerPoint flashed a new image on the screen. The ancient lecture hall was filled, and Bryan MacAllistair was amazed that the many students gathered here from around the world had listened to him thus far in rapt silence. He was nearing the end of his lecture, only a few more points to make.
“This is an eighteenth-century sketch of Katherine, Countess Valor, considered one of the greatest beauties of her time. She was charged with crimes so vile that the court records were sealed. Later, they were lost to a fire. Was she a real monster, or herself a victim of evil? Like Countess Bathory, she was a member of the aristocracy, and one of the many women to find riches as a mistress in the court of Louis XIV. History records a cult within his own house, members of his royal court who became involved in witchcraft. The lady in question is actually the focus of another lecture, but she has a connection to this area. She was condemned for witchcraft and murder but, miraculously, made an escape. Some say she turned to smoke and escaped between the bars of the Bastille. At the time, witch hunters could still make a living, and the price on her head was so high that she was hunted across the continent. The accepted belief was that she had made a pact with a demon, perhaps even Satan himself, in the guise of a fiend known as the Master. The Master, the legends say, is an anglicized form of an ancient Babylonian evil, a being sprung from the womb of the lamia, one of the very earliest vampire myths, a woman who sucked the life from infants. It’s said that Katherine escaped here, to Transylvania, where the Master had gained a foothold, seeking his help, his power.
“But perhaps this creature had become infuriated with her previous disregard of his power in her own pursuits, for he did not come to her aid when she reached these fog-shrouded mountains. The witch hunters found her here. She had run hard and fast, but with no followers, she had no guard to watch over her as she slept. The witch hunters came upon her, and they immediately axed her beautiful neck. The story goes that there was a hideous outcry from her deadly lips, and she spilled more blood than might have filled the veins of a dozen good women. Not satisfied that the removal of her head would keep her evil at bay, they chopped her into pieces, then burned those pieces in an inferno they kept going for thirteen days and thirteen nights, thirteen being the number of members in a coven, the number of diners at the ill-fated last supper, when Christ was betrayed. At any rate, there was little doubt she was dead when her pursuers finished with her.
“Did she in life really consume the blood of countless virgins in order to perform magic not only for the nobility but for the king himself? Or was she the victim of jealous rumor, and did time itself create the monster? That is the question we all must answer for ourselves.”
He waved to the crowd of spring-break students who had filled the old guildhall and headed down from the podium. As he walked, he was met with a thunder of applause. He hurried down the aisle, anxious to escape. Ostensibly, he had come to teach; he was actually on the trail of the monster.
When he’d found out he was coming to Transylvania, he’d promised his friend, Robert Walker, dean of history at the local university, that he would give a speech. But he’d had to sandwich it in between his commitments and now he was running late.
He had done a lot of traveling lately, he reflected, watching what seemed to be the awakening of an ancient evil.
He left the guildhall behind and reached the large village square. And there, despite his haste, he paused and looked up. The sky seemed to be roiling. There was a moon, not a full moon, but a crescent. It gave scant light, and even that was extinguished when the clouds moved over it.
There was a hint of red in the moon’s glow, and even in the shadows when that glow was gone. He didn’t like the night. He’d spent most of his life traveling, studying the evils one man did to another in the name of belief.
He picked up his pace, eager to reach his hotel.
In the lobby, he paused, feeling the sense that something…someone…was there. He turned around. Nothing. No one. It didn’t matter. He’d received enough of a warning when he’d been in London. He knew what he was facing.
“Professor, your key,” the young man behind the desk said.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Again, he looked around the lobby.
Then he reminded himself that he was out of time, and he hurried up the stairs.

Jessica sipped her wine, staring at the fire burning in the grate. The flames fascinated her, rising, falling, lapping at the ancient stone of the hearth. Gold, red, even a touch of blue…
“Don’t you agree, Miss Fraser? That society itself has created so many of the difficulties our children face? Society and the modern world, with its bombs and wars?”
She stared across at the sturdy German professor who had spoken to her. They had been talking about dealing with teenage angst. She blinked, realizing she didn’t have the least idea what he had said in the last few minutes. That morning, she had given her speech. She had been asked to speak about teenage fantasies, and setting troubled youth on the right path. The German had been quizzing her endlessly, it seemed, apparently quite taken by her ideas.
She had to get out.
Why? she taunted herself. Why was she so eager to escape into the night when she was suddenly afraid of shadows?
Confront your fears. It was one of her own doctrines.
“A very difficult time, yes,” she agreed, and rose, smiling. Watching the fire had been like an opiate. She felt positively serene.
Surrounded by…normalcy.
“Excuse me, will you? It’s a bit late, and I’m feeling a bit jet-lagged suddenly. Good night.”
The desperate urge to escape—even to hide—was on her again. She had to force herself not to run out of the restaurant.
She looked at her watch, disturbed to see it had grown later than she had expected. She started briskly walking across the square to her hotel.
Confront your fears. She had done so, hadn’t she? She would do so.
In the middle of the square, she found herself pausing. She looked up at the sky and shuddered. The night was red.
She heard something and swung around. Her breath eased from her lungs. It was just an old couple, hand in hand, out for a stroll. She turned and started walking again. Her nape grew cold. Ice cold. It felt as if the darkness was following her. Looming ever closer…just a breath away. She spun around. The square was empty. She quickened her pace, trying to be calm, logical, attempting not to give in to sheer insanity and run.
Light blazed from her hotel. She was almost running as she neared the entry.
A man was exiting, arm in arm with an attractive woman. They were laughing. Lights shone behind them. Jessica recognized the man; he was an American movie idol. She gave no sign she recognized him, but thanked him as he held the door, then hurried in.
The shadows were gone. The darkness was gone. She let out a breath, shaking her head. She was letting her imagination get the better of her. She strode to the desk, smiling as she asked for her key, the old-fashioned kind that was always kept by the concierge. He gave her the key, along with a note.
She read the message left by the college student she had run into earlier, a deep frown creasing her forehead. She looked at the stately concierge, with his graying hair and upright stance. “Where is the police station?”
She felt it again. There, in the bright light of the lobby. Felt it. The darkness, so black, and yet….
Red.
It was time for her to act.
Literally.

“Oh, my God!” Mary said. “That must be her, the dominatrix the Hungarians were talking about.”
Jeremy stared at the woman. She couldn’t be missed, and not only because of the black leather mask hiding her eyes. Her hair was pitch black, her skin fair. She was wearing black leather pants that clung to her form, showing little, but somehow emphasizing the perfection of her hips and thighs. When he forced his eyes upward, he saw she was also clad in a sheer black blouse over high, full breasts—he had to look twice to realize she was wearing a skin-toned top beneath the blouse. She was completely and decently clad, but the outfit still had an erotic appeal. In this case, more was less. He tried to stop staring. The sight of her was kicking his libido into overdrive. It was a strange feeling.
But then, strange feelings had been coming on ever since Mary had first talked to him about the party that afternoon.
She had been thrilled all during the ride in the black carriage, drawn by two black horses, that had taken them deep into the woods. The carriage had felt like something out of an old-time horror film, as had the ride through the fog-drenched trees. Nancy, a cute redhead, also in the journalism school, had been every bit as excited. She had stared out the window every few seconds, saying, “Can you believe this?”
She said it again now as they stood there, just inside the entry.
“Can you believe this?”
Mary nudged her. “Nancy, don’t gawk. We’ll look totally out of place.”
Jeremy was fairly certain they didn’t look as if they belonged to begin with. The girls had dressed in miniskirts and boots, but it was cold out, so they were also wearing tights and sweaters and heavy coats. He was in his usual tourist garb, jeans and a sweater. But here…
People were in every manner of dress. And undress. Several wore traditional vampire capes, but they weren’t in the majority. A few of the women were topless. One, a redhead of about thirty, was naked. She wore nothing but a belly-button ring and a silver belt. An extremely well built black man strode by, and he, too, was in the buff, except for a flapping loincloth. A few of the men smoking and drinking at the bar wore coats—at least some people in the place recognized the fact it was cold out.
And, to be fair, there were a number of men and women in very ordinary clothing. The kind that actually covered their bodies completely. As he watched, a middle-aged man at the bar adjusted his fake fangs.
“Where’s the girl who invited you?” Jeremy asked.
Mary shook her head. “I don’t see her. It’s a big place. She must be somewhere.” She led them toward the crowd by the bar.
“Americans,” the woman in black leather said, suddenly materializing in front of them. Strangely, Jeremy got the idea that she wasn’t particularly pleased. A look passed across her face in a fraction of a second that made him shiver.
Then it was gone. As if it had never been.
“Americans,” she repeated. “You were invited?”
Her English was heavily accented. She rose, walking toward them. She was strikingly beautiful, with perfect features, dark eyes. He wondered if in real life she might be a model.
Actually, she didn’t walk. She sauntered, every move entirely languid and sensual, her eyes filled with an amused confidence that both set a fire in Jeremy’s gut and also a warning. She eyed Nancy and Mary with a smile, then turned her attention to Jeremy, sliding a hand down his arm. Again, he was strangely excited, and yet…he didn’t feel she found him particularly exciting. In fact, it was almost as if she were putting on a performance. But for whom?
Of course, her whole life was probably an act, if she was indeed the dominatrix, as Mary believed.
“A woman I met in town invited me. She told me to bring friends,” Mary explained quickly, then introduced the three of them. Jeremy noticed that the woman didn’t introduce herself in return.
Again something indefinable passed through the dominatrix’s eyes, so quickly that he decided he might have imagined it.
Must have imagined it.
She went on with that same sensual amusement, as if she were educating the totally innocent—which, of course, in the circumstances, she was.
“Children, let me point out the playrooms. Beyond the bar, the movie room. We have a comprehensive selection of exceptional quality, men and women, women and women, men and men…whatever might appeal. Up the stone stairway…the pleasure rooms. Just beyond that, my personal domain. My dungeon. Visit me later, if you dare.” She smiled at Mary and Nancy. “Have you been bad?” she inquired in a throaty, teasing voice. “Do you need confession? We can arrange for that, too. But first, you must have a drink. The special tonight is a Bloody Mary. Mary…how darling, just like your name,” she said, eyeing Mary again. “Tonight, everything is on me.” She laughed softly. “We’ll find a form of payment. For now remain at the bar. Watch.” She stared at the three of them for a long moment. “I will tell you when it’s all right to move, do you understand?”
“Yes,” Jeremy said, relieved. He had to admit, he was more than uneasy.
He was…scared.
She leaned close to them. “Always know the way out,” she said.
“Always know the way out,” Nancy repeated. Jeremy wondered if he had sounded almost mesmerized when he had spoken, the way Nancy did.
The dominatrix seemed pleased with the response and smiled again.
She exuded a sleek sensuality, along with something smoldering and fierce. She escorted them the rest of the way to the bar and spoke to the man behind it. “Drinks, please. Right away. For my American friends.”
The bartender was tall, lean, dark-eyed, perhaps in his early thirties. He nodded, then hurried to do her bidding.
They sat at the bar to wait for their drinks. Looking around, Jeremy thought it might have been almost any bar anywhere—except for the naked people and the masked woman. Next to them, two men were discussing something in French. At the end of the bar, a good-looking man speaking German was trying to pick up a pretty blonde.
He turned to say something to the dominatrix, but she was gone.
“This is so exciting.” Mary whispered.
“Yeah. A thrill a minute,” Jeremy murmured.
“Stop being such a weenie,” Mary told him.
“You know,” Nancy murmured, “we’re not going to learn much if we spend all night just hanging out at the bar. We need to look around.”
“That woman just told us to stay here,” Jeremy said firmly.
“She also said we should watch,” Nancy argued. “We’ll see more if we look around.”
“She said to stay at the bar,” Jeremy repeated firmly. “And to always know the way out.”
Mary giggled. “Maybe they’re worried about police raids.”
He had a sickly feeling the dominatrix had been worried about something far more serious.
“Look, Jeremy, that woman is gone, and we can’t just sit here all night,” Nancy said.
“We need to split up,” Mary added. “No one is going to talk to us if we stick together like the Three Musketeers.”
“We should stay together,” Jeremy warned uneasily.
Mary laughed softly. “You shouldn’t want us hanging on to you. Our hostess seemed to be pretty into you.”
Jeremy didn’t know why, but he had the feeling the dominatrix had quickly assessed him and found him too young and far too naive. He looked over the heads of the Frenchmen and saw that she was back at the bar. She was behaving casually, chatting with the bartender, speaking to people as they came and went from room to room, and yet…
She seemed to be watching.
For what?
“I don’t know about you two, but I’ve got to see the pleasure rooms,” Mary said, sliding off her bar stool.
“I’ll check out the movie room,” Nancy said.
“I don’t know about this,” Jeremy protested. “I can’t be with both of you.”
But they ignored him, already moving. He saw the dominatrix. She had noted their movements, and she didn’t seem pleased.
Jeremy immediately lost sight of Mary, who must have run up the stairs. He found Nancy hovering at the back of the movie room. He stopped where he was, taking the overstuffed couches and the haze in the air from cigarettes and pot. On a large screen, a porno flick played. Two women were seducing one man—and each other. As he watched, one woman held the other down while the man bared his teeth and bit into the immobilized woman’s neck. She seemed to go into instant throes of ecstasy. Blood lust apparently led to wild arousal.
Despite all the flesh on show, the movie didn’t begin to arouse him. He realized he was far too tense to feel anything other than an unsettling sense of alarm.
A girl rose from one of the couches and approached Nancy, taking her hand. Nancy followed her back and sat down.
Jeremy decided that Nancy could fend for herself. The woman who had approached her was slim and not more than five two. Nancy was giggling and over twenty-one. If she wanted to live on the wild side in pursuit of her craft—or using her craft as an excuse—it was completely her call.
He made his way to the stone stairway and hurried up.
They should have stayed together at the bar, as they’d been told, and just watched.
He reached a long hall lined with doors.
The hall itself seemed far longer than it could possibly be. Perhaps it was the dim lighting and the way the far end of the hall was almost completely dark, adding to the illusion that it went on forever.
On and on…as if in an impossibly long shot for a horror film.
Except this was real.
He told himself that he was only giving in to fear and letting his imagination run wild. Look. All he had to do was look.
No one was in the hallway. He had no idea which door Mary might have chosen.
As he stood there, he felt rather than saw a shadow. No, not a shadow, exactly, a sense of greater darkness. As if something large had cast a pall over the meager light offered by the candles that burned in medieval sconces every ten feet along the walls.
A lump formed in his throat. He was tempted to turn, run back down the stairs and out into the night. Of course, if he did, he had no idea of where he would actually wind up. They had been driven through a dense, fog-shrouded forest, and they hadn’t passed another living soul until they had reached this place, which, from the outside, had appeared to be nothing more than a ruin on a cliff. Yet the urge to run, escape, flee to any other place on earth, tore at him with an urgency that defied all logic.
He would not yield to it. Mary and Nancy were here, and while they were welcome to whatever pursuits they chose, he couldn’t abandon them to this…
“This danger,” he whispered aloud.
Because somehow he knew that his unease was justified. He felt a raw sense of instinctive panic taking hold in his gut.
The shadow was there, real, palpable, evil and malignant.
It was just a shadow, he tried to tell himself. A result of the candlelight, the intense darkness of the night…
“Where are all those psychologists when you need them?” he mocked himself out loud.
He felt the most intense desire to keep looking over his shoulder. There was something there. Something pursuing—no, stalking—him. Slowly, playing with him. He could feel it. Feel the danger, like a gazelle on an African plain suddenly aware that a lioness was silently slipping up behind it….
He spun around. He was alone in the hall.
It was simply the time and place, he told himself. He was in the land of legends, with a bunch of no-life idiots who liked to play at being vampires. It was silly; it was sad.
But fanatics could be dangerous.
And still he felt he was facing something that didn’t remotely resemble a human danger.
He turned back, staring at the doors.
And felt it again. There was a shadow, something…evil.
It was laughing at him, he thought. It knew his fear, thrived on it, and laughed….
They had to get out of there.
“Mary?” he called aloud—almost screaming it. He no longer cared what anyone thought, what ridiculous expectation the girls had for journalistic success. They had to get out.
“Mary?” he called again, and opened the first door.

It was simply too fascinating. Mary was pretty sure she was standing there in wide-eyed wonder. No matter how sophisticated she might have considered herself to be in her own world, she knew she must appear like a lamb in a forest here. Still, this was the kind of thing that made for a great story. People loved to share such wanton and carnal experiences—vicariously. They wanted to be shocked and appalled. They were curious, and satisfying their curiosity sold print. And she? She intended to sell. People were always intrigued by sex and violence. It was unlikely that she would be traveling to any major war zones, so that left sex.
Well, sex and fantasy. The vampire fantasy. It kind of made sense that some guys wanted to act like they were vampires, because vampires had power over women. And some women loved the idea of being taken, dominated….
There was certainly fantasy here, combined with masks…and sex….
First she had stumbled on an intimate ménage à trois. They hadn’t noticed her in the doorway at first, they had been so…involved. Then a husky voice had suggested she join in. Certain her face was a thousand shades of red, she had apologized and moved on.
Another door had led to an empty—but prepared—chamber. And chamber was the right word, not room. The space had been decorated to resemble an ancient dungeon, with shackles on the wall, and whips and chains laid out on a table, ready for use.
She had studied the place as dispassionately as she could, trying for journalistic objectivity, but then, uneasy, she had hurried on with a little shudder. Definitely not her scene.
The third room she found amusing. A very tall, well-muscled man was dressed in a very pink, very lacy nightie, heels and a garter belt. He was admiring himself in a mirror. She excused herself, trying not to laugh as she departed.
But she didn’t feel actually scared until she opened the fourth door.
There was no reason for her fear, really. The room was empty and almost completely dark. Where candles and lamps had burned elsewhere, the only light here spilled in from the hall. When she first opened the door, she saw nothing at all. Then it seemed as if a pair of eyes, fire-colored eyes, stared at her from the deep recesses of the room.
As the light filtered in and her eyes adjusted, she realized it was just a man, sitting alone in the dark. Again she excused herself and hurried on. But even as she closed the door, it seemed as if the darkness still cloaked itself around her. The hall hadn’t changed, and yet it had. It had darkened. As if a giant shadow…
Don’t be silly, she told herself. The candles in the wall sconces were just burning down.
But it seemed as if something chilling had settled in her bones. People. She needed to find people. It didn’t matter what they were doing. He-men dressing in pink lace and frills, writhing bodies involved in an orgy…anyone.
She opened the next door. There was soft light. Comfortable chairs. One wall seemed to consist entirely of a giant television screen. From somewhere, music was playing.
She walked in. “Hello?”
No answer. For a moment she felt faint. Dizziness seized her. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe it, but she was afraid she was going to black out.
She fought the feeling, wondering just how strong her Bloody Mary had been. She opened her eyes. Somehow, things seemed slightly askew, as if something had changed in the few seconds when her eyes had been shut.
The sense of fear was still gripping her heart.
Run. Go!
She found herself sitting down. The TV came on, and the scene was arresting. A beautiful woman sat at a dressing table. She was in an elegant silk gown, brushing her hair. The room appeared Victorian, though the dressing table had art nouveau elements. There was a large wardrobe with the same elegant wood carvings, and a four-poster bed. Drapes floated in, wafting on the breeze with the same surreal whisper as the brush made, stroking through the woman’s long pale-gold hair.
As Mary watched, a shadow seemed to materialize at the window.
She was afraid. Very afraid. She wanted to run.
And yet she could not. It was as if she had frozen in her chair.
Even as the shadow appeared at the window, she sensed another shadow rising behind her. She could feel the darkness, could feel the chill, the ice, whispering along her spine, as if arctic breath were teasing at her back.
There was nothing there, she insisted to herself.
It was evil, cold, a whisper in black and red….
Whispers didn’t have colors….
This one did. Black, like an abyss. But touched by something…crimson.
Like blood.
Get up, Mary. Run! she warned herself.
But she couldn’t. She could only stare at the screen. The shadow had drifted in through the flowing drapes and was gaining greater form. Materializing.
Her eyes widened. She wasn’t watching TV, she realized. No movie was playing. She was looking through a one-way mirror. The scene was in the next room, and it was really happening.
It had to be a parlor trick, a magician’s act. The shadow was becoming a man. Materializing from the mist, like a vision from every tale told about the evils found in the Carpathian Mountains of Transylvania. It couldn’t be real. It was an act, performed by employees of the private club, something done with smoke and mirrors. Not real.
She would not watch anymore.
But she couldn’t move.
Her limbs were far too heavy. And cold…she was so cold. The chill had traveled from her nape to her spine, from her spine to her limbs. She was frozen as surely as any ice sculpture, her eyes glued to the tableau unfolding before her.
The mist had become a man. Tall, dark, sensual, with burning eyes. Slowly, step by step, every movement filled with…hunger, he approached the beauty at the dressing table….
Mary thought she couldn’t get any colder. But still, the sense of darkness and a fetid whispered breath of cold behind her became stronger and stronger.
Then it was as if she became aware of herself again. She looked down, and a frown creased her forehead.
She looked up. She wasn’t staring at a scene taking place in the next room.
She was staring at a mirror.
Somehow she was the blonde at the dressing table.
And there was a man in black behind her, a man with burning, demonic eyes, with breath as fetid as the grave, as cold as death itself….
From somewhere, she heard her name being called, breaking the chains of ice that held her.
And as the shadow-man smiled and approached, teeth—fangs—gleaming she began to scream.

“You say you have no time tonight,” the Australian complained. “All right, I accept that, but just tell me when. I’m rich. I’ll pay you anything. When may I hire your services?”
The dominatrix was only half listening. She could already have damned the man for distracting her until she lost sight of the American and his blond companion. She gave him her full attention for a minute. “I’m sorry. I never know how long I’ll keep the club open in any one place. I don’t plan that far ahead.”
“But—” he began in protest. He was tall, rich, handsome. He could probably have his pick of dozens of women. He’d come for the excitement, the difference, the ever so slightly naughty, the out of the ordinary.
If only he knew how lucky he was not to receive her attentions.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I have an appointment,” she said, then turned and hurried toward the stairs.
Then she heard it, very faintly. The sound of a scream.
“Wait!” the man protested, following her.
No more time to be polite.
“I said, excuse me.” She gave him a hard shove, and he fell back, smiling. She shook her head. Apparently she’d just made the man’s night.
She turned and sailed up the stairs.

Nancy had begun to grow uncomfortable.
It was one thing to play at being sexually daring, quite another to feel she was trapped. And alone.
She’d taken a seat on the couch next to a petite, ever-delicate woman of around her own age. But the hand that held hers now might have been made of iron. They had chatted casually at first about the beauty of the countryside and, the way Americans loved to visit more than any other nationality, because they were such legend hounds, not to mention the kooks who thought they were vampires, and, worse, the ones who had convinced themselves they actually needed to drink blood.
The woman told her that she had spent many years living in Amsterdam, had visited the States frequently, and was particularly fond of a village in the Ukraine. Nancy realized, as they whispered and the porn flick played, that her second drink was making her exceptionally drowsy. She wanted to move, to escape a situation that was becoming uncomfortably intimate, but she didn’t seem to have the will or the ability to get up. It occurred to her, in the back of her mind, that the woman had never even mentioned her name.
She’d held Nancy’s hand, smoothed back her hair. Nothing too forward at first, and Nancy had thought she could get the woman to talk about this place and what went on here, information she could write about later. Did drugs flow freely? She hadn’t been offered any. Then again, what the second Bloody Mary was doing to her was more than a little frightening. Her companion began touching her more intimately, and she didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to stop her. The woman’s fingers lingered on her knee, crept up under her skirt. The soft, hot brush of her breath seemed to caress Nancy’s throat and her earlobes, yet when Nancy looked, she seemed to be inches away.
“I…I…I’m not gay,” Nancy whispered.
Her companion laughed softly. “You think you need to be gay to experiment and explore?”
Speaking seemed to take a tremendous effort. “It’s just not…not what…I need to leave now.”
“Don’t run away now. I can show you a good time you’ll remember until your dying breath. Pleasure so exquisite—”
“I have to go.”
“Very well. Go, then.”
The woman wasn’t touching her at all, Nancy realized. She could have risen. There was nothing on earth stopping her.
Except…
Except everything was too heavy. The room was too heavy. The darkness was too heavy.
Her limbs were like boulders.
Fingers teased her hair and throat. A touch so light, so seductive, that she couldn’t help responding to it.
She had to get out. Had to rise, had to run.
“There, on the screen,” her companion said. “Watch. My friend is in this one.”
Nancy stared at the movie.
They had gone from a sex tape to a very different scene, something both far more beautiful and far more disturbing. There was a woman, her every movement languid, elegant. Gossamer fabric floated around the woman. Her hair seemed to swish across the screen like silk. The film was provocative in a way that the simple thrusting and panting that had preceded it hadn’t been. Nancy couldn’t stand, couldn’t protest. She could only watch. She felt tears forming in her eyes and she was suddenly scared.
She thought she heard a whisper, but her companion wasn’t talking, only watching the screen.
Still, Nancy was sure she heard words.
Come, sweetheart. Show me your throat. Let me taste all that life rushing through your veins….
Nancy heard her companion moan softly and turned to find the woman looking at her, so at ease, so pleased.
Like a cat with the canary already between its paws.
“Watch, now.”
And she did, because she had no other choice. Her heart was beating so loudly that she could hear its thunder. Somehow she knew that the woman at her side could hear it, too.
“There.” The woman pointed, and Nancy stared.
There was something dark at the right-hand corner of the screen. A mist, red and black…darkening, becoming…something….
A man. A low-brimmed hat hid his features. He was tall. He walked slowly up behind the woman.
The woman turned. Mary.
A soft gasp escaped Nancy. She tried to form a protest.
“Yes,” her companion hissed. “Yes, soon…”
Mary turned.
Saw the man…and screamed.
On the screen, a door burst open. Jeremy. The man looked up, his face shadowed except for his eyes, which glowed like fire. And he had fangs.
The man was undisturbed by Jeremy’s presence. He strode toward him, laughing.
“Yes,” the woman beside Nancy hissed again.
Nancy turned, and her eyes widened in horror. The woman had changed. She had grown. Her eyes were glowing with a pure fire. And her teeth…were no longer teeth.
They were fangs.
Terrified, sure she was hallucinating, Nancy forced her eyes back to the screen.
The man had reached Jeremy, still laughing. He threw his arm out, his hand connecting with Jeremy’s face.
Jeremy went flying, slamming back against the doorframe.
Nancy’s eyes darted back to the woman. She saw the fire in her eyes, felt her own terror rise. Watched the fangs, dripping with anticipation.
And she could do nothing but weep in her soul. The woman’s touch, her eyes…it was as if Nancy had been stung by a paralyzing spider. She could not prevent her own demise. She could not even cry out, only hear herself scream in terror inside her head.
Then there was a shattering sound. As if someone had burst into Mary’s room through a window. The sound changed everything. Or maybe the arrival of whatever…whoever…had caused the that sound. Nancy felt something stirring in her, a sense of herself, of strength. She stared at the screen. There was someone else in that room now…a presence. Broad-shouldered, tall, dominating. A man, and something about his appearance…
What?
Changed everything. Evened the playing field. Gave her…hope.
He was wearing a large, low-brimmed hat and a floor-length leather trench coat, like an old railway frock coat. And he carried what appeared to be a longbow.
The man moved with the speed of lightning, stringing his bow in a blur.
He stood still for a moment, a bastion against the insanity.
“No,” gasped the woman at Nancy’s side. “No.” she repeated, a whine of protest and even of horror.
Nancy no longer had any idea what was real and what was not, but she, too, knew that everything had changed.
The man had burst not just through glass but through the spell that had been upon them, the miasma…
The evil.

3
The dominatrix reached the room. She hadn’t been prepared for this, hadn’t believed…
She threw open the door, her heart thundering with fear, with anticipation. What had been conjecture was now proved to be true. He was there.
But someone else was there, as well. Someone unknown to her, yet she sensed his power.
She straightened, hesitating, knowing she had to make a split-second decision.
And then she saw the other man more clearly. Not his face, for his hat was drawn too low, but she saw the longbow, the way his head was bent, eyes on his target.
She backed away.
Who? What?
Then she heard screams coming from below.
Screams of shrill, uncanny terror.
All hell had broken loose.
Indecision tore at her for a moment.
Alone. She shouldn’t have been alone.
She should have seen to it that she had help with her. But she hadn’t really known what would happen here. So she was alone.
What to do?
Whatever was happening here, there was a force at work to counter evil, while down below…
The screams continued.
She turned and ran.

She could move, Nancy realized. The sound of the shattering glass had somehow freed her.
She stood, screaming—aloud, this time.
On the screen, the arrow was fired. It caught the fanged monster in the shoulder. The creature hissed, then gave an ungodly roar of fury.
It seemed to echo and echo….
A hand fell on Nancy’s arm. She looked down and shivered. Not a hand, a talon. She looked again at the woman who had tried to seduce her, who looked even less human than before.
Her grip, again, was powerful.
Chaos broke out. People were rising all around. Some, like her, were screaming…fighting.
And others—like the woman beside her—were shrieking in fury, attacking.
Something seemed to fly into the room. A shadow, the essence of darkness and speed. As Nancy stood, a continual scream flowing from her lips, the woman was ripped away from her.
“Get out!” The command was harsh. Male? Female? She couldn’t tell.
She was all too willing to obey, however. She ran for the entry, terror lending her speed.
Behind her, someone cried her name. She was afraid to turn, even though she knew it was Mary calling out to her. She was afraid to stop.
Mary caught up to her, still dressed in the gossamer gown. In the back of Nancy’s mind, she knew it was cold out and that her friend would freeze.
Tears were streaming down Mary’s cheeks. “We’ve got to get out.”
Someone shouted behind them. They heard a cry of savage fury, saw a body go flying across the room and slam against the bar. They heard a snap, the sound of bones breaking.
They stumbled for the door and burst out into the night. Mary stopped dead still. “Jeremy is still in there.”
She turned. Nancy grasped her by the shoulders. “You can’t go back in there.”
“Jeremy tried to save me,” Mary said. Her teeth were chattering.
Someone burst through the door behind them, someone they had seen at the bar. He practically shoved them out of the way, then stopped, staring wildly around.
He turned back. He was large and well muscled. His eyes, however, echoed their own terror.
“Got to get away,” he said in German-accented English. He started to run, then stopped, stripping his jacket from his shoulders, throwing it toward them. Nancy caught the jacket and automatically wrapped it around Mary’s shoulders. The German man continued to stare at them. “Get away,” he said tonelessly.
“To where?” Nancy wailed.
But the man was gone, running blindly toward the forest.
“We’ve got to go, too,” Nancy said.
“Jeremy,” Mary repeated.
Others began to burst out the door. Like the man before them, they began racing madly toward the mist-filled forest.
Nancy dragged her friend in the same direction, though Mary felt like lead. Nancy stared at her and realized that she was in shock. Her eyes were wide; her teeth continued to chatter. She was as pale as ash.
Nancy knew she had to move for the both of them. She dragged Mary with her, heading toward what looked like a trail.
A new sound made itself heard, but what it meant didn’t register in her mind. She just knew they had to get away.
“Come on, come on,” she pleaded. And then, at last, Mary began to move. Through the mist, Nancy saw the trail more clearly. She staggered toward it.

Jeremy was in agony the minute consciousness returned. The bursting pain in his head was overwhelming. He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t. He became aware of movement, of shouts, of a fight.
He heard grunts of ferocious determination and raw anger. Something fell, close to him. He forced his lids open. He could see figures…men, flying at one another. Something else landed at his side.
Eyes open. Steady his head. Ignore the agony.
Get to his feet.
Using the wall, he managed to rise. Once he was up, he fought a savage wave of nausea that threatened to cause him to black out again. There was a thud. And then…
Silence.
He turned, aware that he needed to flee, but he stumbled. Someone was striding toward him. He screamed, throwing up his arms, too exhausted to fight.
His mind cried out that he should remain standing.
But his body gave out, and he began to fall.

Nancy found a place under the trees where at least the blast of the wind was blocked. She remained in terror that any minute they would be attacked by a monster, but she knew she couldn’t possibly walk all the way back to the village with Mary. Her friend’s feet were bare. She all but needed to be carried, and Nancy didn’t have the strength for that. She lowered her head, suddenly recognizing the newest sound.
Sirens. Thank God! There were police, even here, deep in the shrouded forest, in this no man’s land of darkness and mist….
The police would find Jeremy.
“Miss?”
She froze. The voice had come from behind her. Terror snaked up her spine once again. She couldn’t turn.
It had been a man’s voice, deep, husky. There had been nothing threatening in it, but still…
“Tend to your friend. The police are on the way,” the voice continued.
She spun around. There was no one there. Wait! On the ground, by the tree. Jeremy. As she stared at him, he groaned.
She raced to his side. He groaned again. She fell to the forest floor, taking his head on her lap. “Jeremy, you’re alive. Speak to me. Are you hurt? Hang on, the police are coming.”
He blinked and opened his eyes, staring at her as if he didn’t know her for a minute. The he blinked again and tried to sit up, groaning. “How did I get here?” he murmured. He gripped her by the shoulders. “Mary. Where’s Mary?”
Nancy pointed. Mary was seated against another of the sheltering trees, staring straight ahead, her eyes blank even as they were wide open.
Jeremy stared at Nancy, then touched her cheek, and struggled to rise. He made it halfway and crawled over to Mary.
“Mary?”
She didn’t seem to see or hear him.
“Oh, Mary,” he murmured, taking her into his arms. She didn’t protest or respond. After a moment he set her against the tree again and looked at Nancy. “Help me. I’ve got to make sure the police find us.”
Nancy helped him stagger to his feet. “Stay with Mary,” he commanded.
Blood was trickling down his forehead. Nancy started to say something, then didn’t. What did it matter? They had to have help.
In the silence after Jeremy left, she became aware of the screams of terror, still echoing, audible even over the sirens.
A minute later, through the trees, she saw the police vehicles drive up. Suddenly the night was aglow with flashing lights.
The police seemed to be everywhere, helping those who had stumbled outside, those who were injured and those who were in shock.
“It’s going to be okay now, Mary,” she whispered gently, hugging her friend. She wondered if she should get Mary up, try to force her back toward the house. But as she sat there, shivering, she saw that Jeremy had found help and was bringing the police toward them.
She began to weep.
As she did, she looked up at a sky streaked with black and red….
At a night sky that seemed to bleed.

Jeremy didn’t go to the police station with some of the others who had been rounded up, screaming and in panic, outside the old castle. He’d been whisked off to the hospital, like Mary, because of the head wound he’d sustained.
It didn’t get him out of having to deal with a police officer.
Detective Florenscu sat in a chair by his bed, dark eyes brooding, brow creased with a frown, as he listened to Jeremy’s account of the events.
Then he shook his head. Behind him, another officer cleared his throat. Florenscu looked back at his partner, and sighed. “Mass hysteria,” he said in English.
“I am not hysterical,” Jeremy argued. He winced. His head still hurt if he talked too loudly.
Florenscu sighed. “We searched the place thoroughly. There were no signs of vampires—because vampires do not exist. But even in a small village, there is crime. And here, with so many tourists, men and women of unsavory character are drawn to our streets. Our only chance of finding them is with the help of the victims. With your help.”
“I’ve told you what I saw,” Jeremy said softly, closing his eyes.
“Please, you must keep trying to remember everything. Tomorrow you can go through books of photos for me.”
“Ask Mary,” Jeremy said.
“I’m afraid no one can ask your friend anything. She remains in shock. She doesn’t speak, she just stares.”
Jeremy roused himself. “She’ll come out of it. She has to.”
Florenscu shrugged. “When she is more stable, we’ll see that your friend gets home to the United States.”
“Nancy?” Jeremy whispered.
“She is waiting. You may speak with her now.” Florenscu rose. “She says someone brought you out to them in the trees. Who?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t conscious.”
“You have no idea?”
“No.” Jeremy shook his head. He winced. That wasn’t true.
“The man who fought the vampire,” he said aloud.
“There are no vampires,” Florenscu told him. “My men have recovered a large amount of alcohol and drugs. They are demons enough.”
“There was a vampire,” Jeremy said determinedly.
Florenscu sighed wearily. “This is Transylvania,” he said with a shrug. “Everyone wants there to be a vampire.”
“I’m not lying.”
“No. You are not lying. You are mistaken. But you are trying to be honest with me. So, tell me, what about this other man?”
“He stopped the vampire.”
“With a stake?”
The weary humor was apparent in Florenscu’s voice.
“With a longbow.”
“Touched with holy water, I imagine.”
“I wouldn’t know. All I know is that he saved my life.”
“Well, that is good. Let us hope I can find him and get some real answers.”
Florenscu rose and turned to leave at last, his partner following him. The minute he was gone, Nancy burst in. She rushed to him, all but throwing herself on him, then drawing away quickly. “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“Hug me whether it hurts or not. You’re warm and alive.”
She sat down on the side of his bed and looked at him, troubled. “They don’t believe me. Not a word I say.”
“It’s a little late, but…well, I did say we shouldn’t go. Have you seen Mary?”
“Yes.” She looked down.
“And?”
“She just stares straight ahead. But she eats when she’s fed, drinks water. We’ll get her home. The doctor said that she might snap out of it in a day or two or…”
“Or?”
“Never,” Nancy said with a wince.
Jeremy’s mind reeled in a new kind of agony. Mary. He had failed her. And yet…it was a miracle that they were all still alive.
He shook his head; it hurt, and he warned himself not to try that again. “If we could find the man in the trench coat…. It was black, like his hat. I never saw his face.” He stared at Nancy. “He’ll know. He’s the one who brought me out.”
There was a soft tapping at the door. They turned simultaneously.
Jessica Fraser was standing there, her soft blond hair rippling down her back, her immense blue eyes filled with concern. He felt a little flutter in his heart, a stir of appreciation. And he felt like a real kid again, glad an adult had come to help him.
“How are you?” she asked, entering.
Jeremy stared at her. “Grateful to be alive,” he told her. “Mary…”
“I just saw her. We have to have faith.”
She smiled at them, walking to the bedside, touching his forehead. “I was due to fly out today,” Jessica said. “But the police said your parents wouldn’t be here until tonight or tomorrow morning, so…I wanted to be sure you were all safe before I left.”
Jeremy felt a pang. “You don’t have to stay.”
She laughed softly. “Maybe I do. You need looking after. You’re very lucky, you know. There have been similar disturbances in several other places. The authorities believe there’s a dangerous cult growing larger on a daily basis, well financed, with members who are adept at setting up in various countries and luring in victims. What on earth made you do something so stupid?” she asked.
He looked at Nancy. Nancy looked at him. Mary, they both thought. But Mary was barely alive, and he would never blame her.
“Stupidity,” he told Jessica. Then his eyes widened. “You were the one who went to the police, who told them something was up.”
“The minute I found your note,” she told him.
Nancy let out a little sob. “Thank you.”
“I was young once, too,” Jessica said ruefully. “Jeremy,” she asked, “how did you get away?”
Here I go again, he thought. Tell the truth and sound like an idiot? Or lie?
He took a deep breath and opted for the truth.
“There was a man,” he said simply. He almost laughed. “There was a good man, and a bad man. Or a good man and a monster, a good man…and something that was pure evil. In the end, I’m pretty sure the good man won. Think the police will ever believe that as a story without insisting I’m the victim of mass hysteria?”
“You should rest now,” Jessica told him, not pressing for more.
“Hard to do.”
“Are you afraid?”
“You bet.”
“I can stick around,” she told Nancy, “if you want to go back to your hostel and sleep.”
Nancy shook her head. “I can’t go anywhere. I want to stay with Jeremy.”
Jessica nodded her understanding. “I’ll go sit with Mary for a while.”
“Jessica,” Jeremy said, then hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Don’t leave. Please. Stay with her. Don’t leave her alone. Stay with her all night. Please.”
“I will. I promise. I’ll be right down the hall, so call me if you need anything, if you feel uneasy…or just to talk.”
Nancy fell asleep in the chair in his room, and he knew that Mary was just down the hall, and that she wasn’t alone, that Jessica was with her. That seemed important, somehow.
Eventually he slept, but it was a restless sleep. It was as if he could hear the wind, and the wind was whispering a single word.
Vampyr.
But vampires weren’t real.
Yes they were.
Panic seized him. He tried to awaken.
He thought that he opened his eyes. He was suddenly certain that a man was standing over him. A man wearing a low-brimmed hat and a railway frock coat.
Had the man come to check on him? Had he been to see Mary?
But Jessica was with her.
And this man wouldn’t hurt Mary. He had saved their lives.
Hadn’t he?
When Jeremy looked again, the man was gone and the panic left him. He felt a bizarre sense of safety.
He closed his eyes again, and this time he slept deeply.

4
“So, Mr. Peterson, if you don’t mind, we need to start with the basics,” Jessica said, smiling. She had her notebook open, her pen in hand, seated in a large, overstuffed leather recliner while Jacob Peterson, her last patient of the day, sprawled on the sofa in her New Orleans office. She never suggested that anyone lie down; she simply suggested they get comfortable. For Jacob Peterson, being comfortable apparently meant half sitting, scrunched down in the sofa, legs sprawled out and fingers laced as he scowled.
It was her first session with him, but over the years, she’d worked with many teenagers like Jake, as well as adults.
“The basics,” he murmured. “The basics are that my folks are making me come here.”
“Because they’re worried about you. Tell me, do you believe you’re a vampire?” She kept her tone serious, nonjudgmental.
“I should have known years ago,” the boy told her. “I stay up all night.”
“So I understand. And it makes it very difficult for you to get to school.”
He waved a hand in the air. “School is for mortals.”
“Mr. Peterson—”
“Jake. Just call me Jake.”
“Jake, let’s say you are a vampire. Even vampires have to make a living.”
He frowned, startled. “Vampires…have to make a living?”
She leaned forward. “Jake, there are diseases that create a physiological desire to drink blood.”
“I don’t deserve blood, I need it.”
“You need blood, or you’ve convinced yourself you need blood?” she asked.
“I’m not the only one,” he said defensively. “Not the only one who needs blood.”
“I’m not sure I’m the person you should be seeing. I’m a psychologist. If you really need blood, we should be looking at a number of physical tests.”
He shook his head. “They—I—no.”
“Why not?”
“They won’t find anything.” He scowled again. “Don’t you understand? I’m a vampire.”
She lowered her head, hiding her sigh. She had had this very conversation so often. Too many people came to this part of the country because they thought they were vampires, or because they wanted to rebel and become part of a cult. Some had even committed murders, so convinced were they of their own supernatural tendencies.
She thought back to the horror she had seen in Transylvania. Perpetuated by men, or by pure evil?
“I am a vampire,” Jake said.
“When did you first realize you were a vampire?” she asked.
“You believe me?”
She put down her notebook and uncrossed her legs, leaning forward. “Jake, listen, you’re in a lot of trouble. I just want to help you, but I can only do that if you’ll tell what’s really going on with you. Okay?”
He nodded and leaned back against the sofa, looking tired. Much better than before, when his attitude had reeked of sheer hostility.
Jake started to talk. As she had expected, he started off with esoteric words, trying to make her see a different world, one in which he wanted to exist. But once he started talking, his words flowed with very little encouragement from her. It became clear that Jake’s case was very similar to several she had dealt with before. After all, this was New Orleans, city of voodoo and vampires.
Jake was a brilliant kid, nice-looking, if a little thin. But he was shy and didn’t speak to girls easily. He was great with a computer. He’d read extensively.
And everything he had read he had skewed in a certain direction.
“You said there are others like you,” she said softly. “That you feel the urge for blood most often during nights when there’s a full moon. And that you walk frequently during those nights. So…where do you walk? What do you do?”
He flushed a beet red suddenly. “Um, well, once…I paid for it.”
Jessica frowned. “Paid for…it? Do you mean sex?”
“Yeah, well, that…and blood.”
That was New Orleans, too. Most diversions could be found somewhere—if you had the money to pay for them.
“I see. You just wound up at a peep show, or…someone solicited you on the street, or…?”
She was startled when she saw that her question had left him seriously perplexed.
“Jake?” she prodded gently.
“I—I don’t remember.” He stared at her, still looking lost and confused. “I mean…I knew that I had drunk blood. But now that you ask…”
“Were you alone?” she asked him.
The confusion was gone. There was a hard mask in its place. “I can’t tell you who I was with. I won’t tell you who I was with. You can’t make me.”
“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” she said with a shrug. “Tell me what you want, but I hope you’ll learn to speak freely.”
“There are others. Many others. And more are coming,” he said.
“Oh?”
Once again he appeared confused. Her heartbeat quickened. This was worrying.
“I’m not the only one,” he said.
“I’m concerned about you, Jake,” she told him. “And since I can’t make you tell me anything, I’ll tell you what I think, and we’ll leave it at that. You have friends who feel as you do, and you were out with one or more of them. I don’t think you had a particular destination in mind, and you wandered into a bad area, where you were accosted. Don’t take offense—you were easy prey. And when you left, you were probably minus every cent you had in your wallets, and maybe a nice watch or some jewelry, as well.”
His hand instantly went to his throat, though he wasn’t wearing any kind of medallion. His lips tightened, and she could tell that she had hit on the truth.
“Jake, I want you to do a couple of things for me. First, we’ll rule nothing out, okay? So I’m going to have you go to your primary-care physician and get a complete physical, all right?”
“Look, I’m fine. I just—”
“Then, because it would be good for you, you’re going to see a nutritionist and start on an exercise program.” Before he could start complaining, she added, “Jake, I know you’re extremely intelligent and can slide right through all your schoolwork, and that part of the reason you don’t care if you make it to class is that you’re way ahead of most of the work going on. That may mean you need to skip ahead, or start adding some university classes onto your schedule. We have a long way to go to get to the root of your unhappiness.”
“I’m not unhappy.”
“You’re not?”
He flushed again, looking down. “I just don’t belong.”
“Then we’ll find out where you do belong. And where you want to go.”
“Games,” he said.
“What?”
“I’d like to design computer games. I think I could do it. I think I’d be good at it.”
“I’ll bet you would be,” she assured him. “Next week, same time. And I’ll give your parents a call to—”
“I thought you couldn’t repeat anything I said here,” he demanded angrily.
“I’m not going to repeat anything. I just want them to get you set up with the right professionals. Now, if you want to say anything else, if you think we haven’t covered anything, we still have a few minutes,” she told him.
She was startled when he stood and took a step that brought him right in front of her chair. His eyes were alight; he was tense, excited. “I heard you were there,” he told her. “In Transylvania. I read about it in the paper. I heard you blew the whistle on the vampires, that you were the one who called the police.”
Oh, God, this again!
But she didn’t intend to be secretive and feed into his fantasies. She stared at him levelly.
“I met some students over there. One of them left me a note, and I passed it on to the police,” she said.
She was startled again when he set his hands on the arms of the chair. Leaned down and looked deeply into her eyes. “Aren’t you afraid? Afraid the vampires will come after you—for revenge?”
She stared straight back into his eyes and let out a weary sigh. “From what I heard, Jake, someone freaked out way before the police got there, and the party was already over. Am I afraid the vampires will come after me? No. Feel free to stay if you have something important to discuss, Jake, but if you’re just trying to turn the tables here, forget it. Okay?” Her voice was calm and steady. Bored. He had expected to get a rise out of her, but she knew better than to let him.
He shrugged, pushing away from the chair. “Sure sounded like a hell of a party,” he murmured.
“Yeah, great party. A girl is still in the hospital,” Jessica said, making a mental note to drop by the hospital over the weekend. She had left Romania soon after the students’ parents had arrived, but she knew from the newspaper that Mary had been brought home to a New Orleans hospital. The papers had turned the event into a decadent costume party and little more, but anything that mentioned vampires intrigued the public, and even the national papers had picked up the story.
When Jake was gone, she walked to the front desk. Since they were expecting a lodger, she’d sent Stacey home early. Now she pulled out her appointment book, curious to see what her schedule was for the following Monday. When she opened the book, she sat back thoughtfully.
Jeremy had made an appointment for himself.

Bryan MacAllistair felt he’d arrived at the perfect time in New Orleans—not just the season, but the time of day, as well—when he first stood in front of the old Montresse place.
The dead heat of the day was gone, and night was just coming on. It came softly, perhaps deceptively, to this area of the French Quarter, just beyond reach of the neon lights, the blare of the music and the laughter of inebriated tourists. Here, only the faint sounds of a distant waltz could be heard, or perhaps they were only imagined as shadows fell over leafy trees. The Montresse house stood back beyond a brick wall and iron gate, gently cradled by the darkness. The night was kind, he thought. There was no aura of decay about the place. The grounds were slightly overgrown, and looked as if the paint were threatening to peel but hadn’t quite reached the point where it was willing to abandon the splendor of the facade.
He stared at the house for a while. Then he found the hinge on the wrought-iron gate and entered, following the stone path from the sidewalk to the porch. Montresse House was old, built when there was still space to be had in the French Quarter. There was a graceful lawn, dotted with flowers and trees that dripped lazily with moss. The porch was more reminiscent of an old plantation house rather than a city dwelling.
As he walked, he was aware that, above him, from a window on the second floor, a curtain had been pulled back.
His arrival was being watched.
With a shrug, he stepped up on the porch and reached for the heavy door knocker, but before he could touch it, the door swung open.
The woman standing there appeared to be in her early twenties. She had a pretty face and a cheerful smile.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” he returned.
“You’re the professor the travel agency booked?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s me. Bryan MacAllistair.”
“Cool. Come on in.”
He stepped inside, and the woman shut the door behind him.
“I’m Stacey LeCroix, Ms. Fraser’s assistant. Welcome.”
“Thanks. This place sounded like heaven,” he said. “It’s a beautiful house. Is Ms. Fraser from New Orleans? Has she owned the house forever?”
“Oh, no, Jessica’s from…actually, I’m not sure where she’s from originally, but she was practicing in Jacksonville before she came here. She’d been here for a few years before I started working for her. I know about the house, though—a friend had been keeping an eye open for her and called her when it came up on the market. But, you’re absolutely right. It’s beautiful. Come on. I’ll show you around.”
A sweeping staircase was the central focus of the foyer, and he could well imagine being swept back through the decades to a time when cotton was king and Southern belles had whisked along the hallways in elegant ballgowns. There were broad double doors to both the right and left, closed now.
“The ladies’ parlor was to your left and the men’s smoking room to the right. Of course, we prohibit smoking in the house, though your room has access to the wraparound balcony, just in case.”
“A cigar here and there,” he told her, shrugging. Her expression clearly displayed what she thought of cigar smoke, but he refused to back down. “However, I prefer my cigars with good brandy, right time, right place,” he told her reassuringly.
“Humph,” she murmured. “Well, in the morning, the doors to the right are open and it’s a lovely dining room. The original dining room is Ms. Fraser’s office. The bedrooms are upstairs. If you lose your key or have any maintenance problems, there’s a groundskeeper’s cottage just to the rear of the main house—you can reach it through the yard. Ms. Fraser and I both work but Gareth Miller, our handyman, is just about always around.”
“No problem,” Bryan said.
She set one foot on the first step of the stairway, and turned, an uncertain look on her face. “You’re a professor, right?” she asked. He had the feeling that she was uncertain, and irritated with herself because of it.
“Yes, just as the booking agency promised.”
She nodded, still frowning. “Of course. Um…sorry. Follow me.”
Up the stairs and to the left, she opened the first door on the right side of the hallway. “I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable,” she assured him. “The bath was added soon after the turn of the last century. Deco fixtures,” she said proudly. “We do charge a bit more than most, but…”
“Worth every cent,” he assured her, and he meant it. The room was huge, and the bath was really something. The room itself offered a queen-size bed, the usual modern entertainment center, a period dresser with a contemporary coffeemaker and microwave, a nineteenth-century desk with a printer and fax machine, and an ample closet. French doors opened out to the wraparound balcony. He strode out, inhaling the rich scent of new-grown foliage, and noting the attractive garden and small pool below. The backyard wasn’t vast, but it was big enough to offer the swimming pool—blessed relief in the dead heat of summer, he was certain—and a small patio and garden. And from back here, the street might as well have been a million miles away. The house was a treasure and, he surmised, worth a small fortune.
He turned. Stacey LeCroix was waiting just inside the room, watching him, still looking uncertain.
“It’s perfect,” he told her.
She smiled. “Yes, isn’t it? Sorry, I must be a little tired today. I…never mind. Ok, what else? Maid service only if you’re out of the room by twelve. We only have two women who come in, and they both have school-age children. If you don’t find anyone in the dining room in the morning, you’ll find a petit déjeuner set up on the patio. And you’re welcome downstairs anytime, except in the office or our private apartments.”
“Naturally,” he agreed.
“So that’s all you have? That backpack?” she asked him.
“For now,” he said simply.
“Well, then…I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
She smiled a little awkwardly. “Oh, your key.” She dug into her skirt pocket and produced a key. “It opens both the front door and your room, and please try not to lose it. We’re not set up with computer cards, so it’s the real key thing.”
“I seldom lose things,” he assured her.
“Glad to hear it.” She stared at him for a moment longer, then left.
He closed the door behind her and walked to the balcony.
It was perfect.
He closed his eyes. If he listened, he could hear the faint sounds of the city. To the rear, all was tranquil. And yet, out there, New Orleans teemed with life.
Night was falling, darkness sweeping down…with a hint of red.

“Oh, my God!”
Jessica stood in the doorway, staring at her wide-eyed assistant as Stacey caught hold of her arm and pulled her back out to the front porch, closing the door behind her.
“Oh, my God what?” Jessica demanded, amused to see Stacey lose her cool.
“He’s gorgeous.”
“Who?” Jessica asked.
“The professor. Wait till you see him. I just…I had to warn you.”
“Warn me? Why? Is he dangerous?”
“Of course not. I’d have never opened the door to someone who looked as if he’d…”
“As if he’d what?”
“Be dangerous. He just wasn’t what I expected,” Stacey assured her.
“I don’t think it’s a prerequisite to be ugly to be a professor,” Jessica said, still amused. And she was glad to be amused, she realized. Nothing had seemed right since she’d returned from Romania. The sky continued to bother her. And even her sessions with kids like Jake seemed disturbing, even though she’d worked with plenty of kids before who had been acting out fantasies, looking for attention. Looking to belong.
“Fine, laugh at me,” Stacey said a little indignantly. “Wait until you see him.”
Jessica stepped past her, entering the house, setting down her purse and briefcase. Stacey followed, hovering near her. Jessica shook her head, laughing. “This isn’t a big corporation,” she whispered. “You’re welcome to have a crush on a guest.”
Stacey flushed. “Don’t be silly. I’m seeing Bobby Munro, and I wouldn’t have a crush on a guest, anyway. He’s just…oh, you’ll see.”
“I’m sure I will.” She still felt a smile twitching her lips as she turned and walked back to the entry table to leaf through the mail.
“Oh, hey,” Stacey said, “Big Jim wants to know if you’re up for a game of Trivial Pursuit.”
“Tonight?”
It was Stacey’s turn to laugh. “Hey, Friday night, wild excitement, you know.”
“Ha, ha.”
“It’ll do you good to have some fun.”
“Well, I mean, your trip turned out to be…eventful,” Stacey said. “I only know what was in the papers, but it sounded pretty awful.”
“My heart bleeds for those kids, but I’m fine. Don’t go tiptoeing around my feelings. Thank you for your concern, but it’s not necessary. I’m not obsessed with it, so don’t you be, okay?” What a crock. It was all still there in her mind, no matter whom she was working with or what she was doing.
She turned. “Trivial Pursuit will be fine. I want to take a shower and chill out first, though. Will you call Big Jim back for me? Tell him about eight. We’ll play here. Who else is coming?”

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