The year is 1664 A. D. Andréa DelaSangre is my name, and I am now two hundred thirty-seven years old, though I do not look a day over thirty. This is because for two hundred seven years, I have been one of the nosferatu…vampires. My story begins in a place called Wallachia—Romania. It begins with a ball. It begins with a man. A man who is a Count. Count Dracul. Dracula.

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Romania, 1459 A. D.

As I entered the room, I felt that the two before me held a rather discomforting power—something I could not determine. The sharp blue eyes of the man met my own cold, grey ones and each of us nodded in strained greeting. The woman, however, did not look at me; she, in fact, turned away, walking to the other side of the large room. I cleared my throat, brushed a wisp of my rust-colored hair from my face and took a deep breath...I looked down at the still-sitting masculine figure before me. Perhaps he had the answers I sought. I would soon find out.

The man rose from his spot on the couch, to stride over and silently kiss my hand. I was in so taken aback; I did not even take a breath while he was bent over it. Who was this self-assured man, who approached without even a formal introduction? He certainly did not act the gentleman he looked.

The man who had led me into the parlor cleared his throat to announce me. “Miss DelaSangre, I am pleased to introduce to you the Count Vladislaus Dracul of Wallachia, here with his fiancée Margot Denethor.” He turned from me to the man, who remained motionless. “My lord,” He faced the woman. “Lady Andréa DelaSangre.”

A grin that can only be referred to as perfection was brewed on this Count’s lips. “How good it is to meet you, Andréa.”

“It is Miss DelaSangre, if you please.” I could not say what made me stand up to him like that, when every inch of me was screaming a warning that something about this man was not right. My request was met by a blank stare, his eyes on me every second—refusing without hesitation to leave me. What was it that attracted him to watch me so intently? What might he know that I did not? This man, to me, was unusually open in his manner, but shut in the occasion of decency.

He nodded his head, just once, his grin fading away to a dull smile. “As you wish. Miss DelaSangre, will you not sit?”

“I prefer to stand, thank you.” It was true; in this room, there was so much history that I felt as if it would all be destroyed if I ventured even to touch an object.

The woman—Margot Denethor, as the butler had described her, at long last left her position at the other end of the salon, and joined her future husband as he sat once again on the crimson-upholstered settee. Still, she did not look at me, rather, avoided me. Why? She had no reason that came to mind for her ignoring my presence. I pushed it out of thought.

Through blinded windows, very little sunlight could break through. Therefore, the room was lit largely with lamps, candles, and also a large, intricate chandelier that hung eight feet above our heads. Would it not be easier to simply leave the blinds open, rather than having to light so many alternatives? Never-the-less, it was not my house, nor my decision to make.

Looking more carefully at the creature that was Margot, I discovered pale skin, dark hair that was drawn back to reveal a circular face with blue eyes and pouting red lips—the red of blood. The entire affect was that of a prim daughter of a nobleman who’d been spoiled all her life, and would go on to be such, even after her marriage to this man who seemed not at all thrilled to have her by his side, let alone in the same room. She would grow old with him, and the Count with her, though neither appeared to pay the other much notice either way. It would be a silent marriage, with carriages passing by their townhouse as the only form of noise. Looking at the woman again, I thought, that will suit her very nicely. I could just picture the two of them in a room such as this, lit with candles and such, the Count quietly reading a book or the paper, his wife moping in silence.

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After the initial introduction, the Count and his fiancée prepared for the coming ball. It was just hours away, and all final preparations had to be attended. I was given a tour by the man servant, and the next time I saw the master of the house, he appeared fully dressed for the masquerade. Margot Denethor wore a highly ornamented white gown with matching plumes gracefully stitched to the sleeves. Her mask was that of a swan, although in my mind, it was not the best match for her behavior.

The orchestra played beautifully that night, as they had been commissioned to. The melody they performed when he took me for a dance, though, had an entirely different tone. The Count had ignored me for the first hour of the ball, hiding in a shadowed corner with his equally mysterious bride to be. However, he approached me with such assurance that I could not find it within me to refuse him for that one, distinctive song that now taunts me, repeating in my head over and over to the point that I think it a wonder it hasn’t driven me mad…

The violinists struck a high note, startling me in the sudden instant their song began. They went on, until the piano, harp, and gambas joined in as well, all adding up for a magnificent result. The Count came to me and, without even asking for the dance, swept me off my feet and onto the dance floor. Amazingly, we seemed to easily avoid being buffeted by the other dancers surrounding us, and for a while I felt as though no one else was in the room—that it was just the two of us and no one else. No worries. No expectations. I felt myself as if under some enchantment…

After the dance, the Count asked me to join him outside, for a ‘midnight promenade’, as he called it with a flourish. Without actually knowing why, I accepted. He took my arm gently, and hooked it with his own. Arm in arm, with me feeling slightly uneasy when we passed Margot, we left the great hall. I felt the eyes of many upon us as we exited. Unusually…it didn’t concern me in the least. I couldn’t have cared less about what anyone thought, and that was when I was reborn.

Before I realized what was happening, we were out in the night. The dark surrounding us and the night’s air caught in my lungs. It was so fresh; it felt as though such a thing should be reserved for only the gods’ use. The Count reached up and grasped the apex of his black mask—the face of a demon with golden, spiraling markings. As he pulled it off, I noticed the line of his jaw, the shape of his brow, the height of his cheekbones. I took in the contents of his face one portion at a time. This face was blatantly cold. The only bit of emotion before me was in his continuously mesmerizing eyes.

Noting my silence, the Count softly inquired, “Is something wrong, Miss DelaSangre?” He voiced what seemed to be true concern, but still I was unsure. To trust the man I had only met that eve, or to follow all reasoning and back away, avoiding potential predicaments?

“No.” I found myself saying, though I felt as if the night choked me for doing so. “Nothing, Count. Though I thank you for asking.”

For a reason even I did not know, I found myself trying not to stare at the man. There was something about him—I couldn’t name it, but it drew me closer. What restraint I had left is what kept me from throwing myself at him. Restraint is a good thing; very valuable at times…

“You prefer to leave your mask on, Miss DelaSangre?” He inquired. His voice seemed to be the only sound in the world; everything else had been drowned out.

I strained a smile and gently touched the rim of the disguise covering my eyes. “I do.”

The Count looked disappointed. “That is a pity, to hide such a face.” He reached out a hand to brush my cheek, but I stepped back to avoid it.

“Sir, you waste your flattery, and I grow more and more likely to leave by the minute. You are engaged to be married, and I am not one to allow men like you to take advantage.”

His smirk was genuine…genuinely smothered in mirth. “‘Take advantage?’ Well, I do not see how you translated my words as meaning you ill. I simply paid you a compliment. I pay my Margot many. I do not mean to offend you, but rest assured, I lend you no more attention than my future wife—or any other woman.”

“Why don’t I believe it?”

The smirk vanished, leaving a quite placid expression. “That is your choice, milady.”

I shook my head. “There it is again.”

Count Dracul shrugged ever so slightly and motioned toward the front of the residence. “Perhaps Miss DelaSangre would like to return to her room?” His icy eyes stayed on me, waiting for my reply.

“I think it would be best, sir. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Allow me to see you to a carriage.” He offered, insisting, “It is the least I can do.”

I saw no choice but to accept; any possible ways of politely refusing eluded me. We walked to the entrance, where a line of carriages awaited occupants. Upon reaching them, one driver hopped down from his high post to open the door for me. Slowly, hesitantly, as if fighting against the warning instincts of my previous attitude, Count Dracul held out a gloved hand to help me ascend the carriage steps. It was the first time I allowed direct physical contact from him, and that moment was laden with tension for us both.

To my surprise and discomfort, I was followed into the stagecoach. I opened my mouth to protest, but the words would not come. It was useless, I decided, to try to convince him not to come. He had vigilantly ignored my strongest wishes since our meeting; why should he start to listen all of a sudden?