Whitby, England, 18—

Whitby is an ancient place, time-worn and sea-scarred, a cradle of legends steeped in salt and shadow. The ocean beats eternally against her black cliffs, as if striving to gnaw her foundations to dust; while above, the ruined abbey lifts its gaunt arches heavenward like the ribs of some giant, long-dead leviathan whose bones yet gleam against the sky. Through those shattered stones the wind whispers secrets, and the gulls cry like lost souls borne upon the tide.

At twilight Vladislav stood upon the cliff's edge, the sea below roiling like a vast black cauldron. The horizon burned with the last crimson of a dying sun, and with each fading ray strength returned to his limbs, vigour denied him through the hateful hours of day. Clouds gathered from the ocean, thick and rolling, thunder growling in their bellies. The wind tore at his cloak, and he spread wide his arms, as though to embrace the tempest itself. "How perfect the evening is," he mused aloud, his voice a rich purr. "The sky itself a painting. What delight, could such splendour be shared..."

"Miss! We must away—this hour is ill, and the place ill-favoured!"

The shrill voice broke rudely upon his communion with the storm. As he turned, his ire melted into a darker pleasure.

There, upon the winding path, stood a vision that pierced even his centuries-wearied soul. A young lady, scarce more than twenty summers, her form draped in garments of delicate finery that proclaimed her station. The last sigh of sunset gilded her brow; her countenance shone with a radiance so pure, so unspoiled, it seemed profanation that Time itself would one day mar it. At her side fluttered her maid, bustling and fretful, urging her mistress back toward the town. But the lady lingered, her eyes drinking the horizon, heedless of entreaty.

"Such beauty," he whispered to the wind, "destined to wither and fade. Unless—"

The last flame of sunset touched her cheek, transfiguring her as though she were some saint enshrined in painted glass. Then twilight swallowed the light, leaving her in its tender half-gloom.

And then—another voice intruded, deep and resonant, too near.

"A beautiful town, is it not?"

The young lady started; the maid gave a sharp cry. And there he stood, as though the darkness itself had taken shape. Vladislav inclined his head, his smile subtle yet perilous, and in that fleeting curve of his lips there glimmered—oh so faint, yet undeniable—the suggestion of fangs, sharp and cruel.

"Forgive me," he said, his tone a caress of velvet laid upon steel. "I did not intend to startle. But I am, alas, a creature easily moved by beauty. When I beheld you standing thus, I could not—nay, I dared not—remain silent."

He bowed low, the gesture fluid and courtly, bearing the fragrance of centuries long past.