"And here, on your right," said the proper British tour guide into her little microphone as she leaned over at the front of the bus to look out at the edifice now coming into view, "is the castle that was the seat of power for Vlad Tepes, or …" she snickered her horsey snicker… "Vlad the Impaler, as he was popularly known. It is said that Vlad's favorite method of execution was to impale his victims, and then have his meals served as he watched them die. We don't know this for a fact, but what is known is that he was a truly, truly cruel individual," she added, with a proper British shudder. 

The tourist peered out her window, staring at the dark towers rising over the Romanian tree tops like the fingers of the dead grasping at the lowering sky. The sight made cold ripples down her back, or maybe it was the fact that it was forty degrees outside, drizzly, and the bus had no heat. She had read all the nonsense written about vampires over the years, and certainly was conversant with Romania's true history --- she was a professor of Middle Europpean history, after all --- but she had to agree that Vlad the Impaler's ruined castle at Poenari was a deliciously spooky place. 

"We'll be stopping for the night at a little village bed and breakfast called The Wolves' Lair," the tour guide went on, pushing at her glasses with her thumb. "Charming little place with quite a history of its own. They have a little restaurant with excellent cuisine, I'm sure you'll absolutely LOVE the place." 

The tourist watched the castle, no longer listening while the tour guide prattled on. She'd heard all the stories, both the actual history and the dubious links to Bram Stoker's Count Dracula. Maybe it was the long, exhausting trip throughout Central Europe, the many prowls through museums and libraries, the prospect of returning home day after tomorrow, but at this moment, she found herself leaning toward the improbable literary tale. What a perfect place this would be to enact that lurid little tale, thus winding up her sabbatical with a bang. 

She idly reflected on the sexual allure that had been Dracula’s. Surely it was only a matter of feeding. Why did people always insist on attaching romance to it Glancing across the aisle, she caught the eye of Michael, that tasty young North American who had joined the group in Budapest and had been eyeing her up ever since. What was he, American, Canadian? Whatever, she hadn’t particularly been attracted to him before, despite the dark, curly hair and the intense eyes, but now that her trip was drawing to a close, and in this mysterious place, she found herself falling into a peculiar mood. 

Stop that, Anya! She told herself. You're an historian and a thoroughly modern woman. You came on this trip to do research while you were relaxing. Stop thinking about that ridiculous Dracula story and having a tryst with a perfect stranger who’s too young for you. 

It even made her giggle a little when, in the very middle of the tour guide's breathless narrative, just as they entered the village and pulled up in front of The Wolves' Lair, a dog or a wolf began howling in the trees by the road. But her giggle died in her throat and she shivered again, when the dog's howl was answered by a dozen more echoing from the dark woods covering the steep slopes to Vlad's castle, a primeval, ghostly song that traveled along her spine and settled in her heart. 

CT - Whispers in the Blood, Part 2 
 

The inn was a modern-looking building with a fake/quaint façade, giving the impression of a movie set. The howls echoed down the slopes and died away, leaving the tourists to scamper from the bus to the inn, laughing among themselves at the deliciously spooky serenade. 

"Isn't it perfect!" cried one gothy-looking girl in black lipstick and velvet as she giggled at her companion, a tall, stork-like boy in scruffy hair and jeans. "If we're lucky, maybe we'll see Dracula, * giggle *!" 

Anya frowned and rolled her eyes. The girl was either talking about the long-turned-to-dust Vlad Tepes, or Stoker's literary creation, for Heaven's sake, which meant she had absolutely NO chance of meeting anyone who fit her expectation of sexy vampire killer. Not that the silly git wouldn't soil her pants if she did. Honestly! 

The interior of the inn was decorated in suitably medieval style for the tourists, with heavy, dark furniture and tapestries everywhere, and even a full-size suit of armor standing at attention complete with halberg, in the foyer. The smiling, middle-class staff were incongruous in their surroundings, but each one of them was determined to carry on the atmosphere of vampire-haunted Romanian peasantry. 

"Shh," the especially perky young lady at the check-in desk said to Anya's query about hiking to the castle before dark. She dropped her voice an octave and spoke in a mysterious whisper. "Do not speak of the Dracul. Ve regard him as a hero, not a wampyre!" She winked. "Ze Turks, you know." 

Anya did know and decided not to pursue it. If she wanted to hike to the castle, she would just have to slip away and do it on her own. In midsummer at this latitude, the skies were usually still light until late into the evening, but on a day like this one, damp and dreary, the light was fading fast. Darkness had never bothered Anya, though. She’d certainly crawled through enough dungeons and tunnels and excavations in her time. This was her chance to prowl the old castle and absorb some of its fascinating history. Who knew what she might find up there? 

There was plenty of time after she'd had a bite to eat. 
 

CT - Whispers in the Blood, Part 3 
 

The restaurant, a low-ceilinged addition tacked on to the main inn, was a faithful recreation of the same quaint old tavern set in every costume drama Anya had ever seen. For goodness' sake, was the whole world being designed by Disney? The lights were low, and there were lit candles in old brass holders on every plank table, adding to an atmosphere worthy of a Transylvanian mystery, though they were not *quite* in Transylvania. She sighed and once again turned to the menu that had been cheerily handed to her by an apple-cheeked young blonde in a ruffly, fluffy, embroidered dress. The menu had English translations below every entrée, and most of the dishes seemed perfectly acceptable. No surprises there. She sighed and put the menu down. 

"Anything will do," she told the waitress. "This one." Her finger fell on one of the offerings. The waitress nodded, smiled, and went away taking the menu with her. 

She stared around the room disinterestedly, taking in the other tourists with whom she'd been traveling, the horse-faced tour guide whom she knew was having a fling with the Romanian bus driver, the freshly starched dining room personnel, the moustachioed chef who peeked through the serving window occasionally. The décor interested her not at all, but the people always did. 

As she looked around, she caught Michael staring at her again. She smiled, and he immediately rose from his place at the bar and approached her table. 

“Hello, Anya,” he said. “May I join you?” 

“Certainly, Michael. Sit down.” 

“You know my name,” he said, a little surprised. 

“Of course. I make it a point to learn everyone’s name when I’m on a guided tour. And besides, you know mine, don’t you?” 

“I’ve been noticing you,” he said. “I asked the tour guide about you, and she said you were some kind of archivist, or historian? And since this is to be the last leg of our trip, I thought I should meet you.” 

“Mere college professor, but my specialty is Medieval History and Central Europe. Are you interested in history?” 

“Of course. You’re familiar with this area then, and all its gory past.” His hazel eyes twinkled with amusement. 

“Oh yes, and I’m also well aware that the vampire stuff is just for tourists, if that’s what you’re getting at.” 

“Well,” he said, leaning close, “there are vampires... and then there are vampires.” 

And which one are you, she thought to herself, smiling into his lovely eyes. 

“I’m going up to the castle after dinner,” she said. “Just to take a quick glance around, so I can say I’ve been on ground that Vlad the Impaler trod.” 

“But it’s dark up there,” he said. 

“No matter. Darkness covers all the imperfections, and gives us a blank screen for for our fondest fantasies. Don’t you agree?” 

Michael smiled. “Yes. I agree.” 

She smiled again, certain of herself, and glanced around the room. Her eye caught a movement in the far, shadowy corners of the room near the bar. Someone was standing there, out of the light. She frowned and picked up the wine list. Pretending to peruse it, she peered over the top of it, trying to make out the shadowy figure, and realized with something of a shock that it was a man. A very handsome man, who was staring back at her. 

She ducked behind the menu, his dark-clad, pale-skinned image imprinting itself in her suddenly churning mind. She peeked again. He was still there, as unmoving as death. He 
gazed at her without expression, only his face and hands standing out from the darkness that enveloped him, though his face was somewhat obscured by a loose lock of dark hair. Something about him made her cautious and excited at the same time. Who was this? A local perhaps? 

My goodness, Anya, she thought to herself. What an embarrassment of riches. 
 

CT - Whispers in the Blood, Part 4 
 

It crossed her mind that the way to really wind up her sabbatical in the Carpathians with a bang was to have a romantic tryst with this eager young man whom she would never see again, and then perhaps to have another encounter with the dark stranger in the corner. It would be a night to remember for a long time, when she back to teaching her classes to bland, bored college students. 

Her food came, and the wine she'd ordered --- something called Golden Mediasch. SShe shared the wine with Michael, and toyed with the food, watching him eat and laugh. He 
seemed fascinated by her, paying her many compliments and asking questions about her profession. She gradually became aware, through subtle questioning, that Michael traveled a great deal, that he often took up with women who traveled alone, and that Michael, dear sweet boy, was a bit of a gigolo. Anya rested her chin on her fist and watched his handsome face with a fascination of her own, and only occasionally did she let her eyes drift to the stranger in the corner. 

“Madame does not care for ze food?” the waitress asked her, with a disappointed and vaguely disapproving expression on her face at the nearly untouched meal. 

“Yes. Yes, please tell the chef it was fine. I’m just not very hungry.” 

"Perhaps dessert vill bring back your appetite?" chirped the waitress. "We haf ze spetzial tonight: Swiss torte wiz fresh strawberries, drizzled wiz ze dark chocolate sauce." 

"Why not?" she said, and it was duly brought on a dainty china plate cushioned by a paper doily. She stared at it, and then signaled the waitress. 

“It looks scrumptious, Anya,” Michael said. 

"Yes, but I really can’t eat it now. Maybe I’ll save it for... later.” She smiled invitingly at him, and he smiled back. “Could I have a box?" she asked the waitress. 

"Of course, madame," said the waitress, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m going to take my walk now,” she told Michael, rising from the table. “Perhaps I’ll see you later?” 

“Count on it,” he answered, rising with her like a true gentleman. He took her hand in his own, lean, elegant fingers, and pressed his lips to the back of it. When he looked up, he gazed meaningfully into her eyes, and she held his gaze, her lips parted slightly as if she were mesmerized. The little white box was brought to her, breaking the spell, and she sauntered away from the table, out of the dining room, and down the hall to the front door, looking back only once to see if she was being followed. 

Time to visit the castle. 

CT - Whispers in the Blood, Part 5 
 

There was a walking path up the slopes behind the inn, clearly marked with signs in Romanian, German, English, and some indecipherable Asian script, probably Japanese. They all proclaimed danger if one wandered off the path, along \ with a brief little history of the ruined castle at the top. The path was very dark, winding as it did among the \ thick, black woods, but Anya had no trouble keeping her \ footing. She carried a small flashlight in her jacket pocket for emergencies, but she rarely used it. 

She went swiftly up the path, carrying her little box. Only once did she look back, but the way was too dark. She couldn’t tell if there were anyone on the path. A delicious shiver ran up her spine. This was so unlike her, to take chances in an unfamiliar place like this, and with the light fading from the sky. 

She hurried, and came out into an open space among the fallen stones of the castle. Its gothic towers rose above her with empty slit-windows staring down at her like blackened, blind eyes. There was still a bit of light up here, out of the trees. The faint drizzle had stopped, and the sun peeped out below the level of the trees, touching the ground, the old stones of the castle, even the chilled air, with an eerie golden glow. Rooks called out, settling among the trees and fallen stones for the night, adding rough music to the castle’s aura of romantic mystery. 

Anya sat on a stone and waited, sighing with the perfection of it all. 
 

CT - Whispers in the Blood, Part 6 

She didn’t have long to wait. He came strolling up the path with his hands in his pockets, whistling cheerfully to himself like a man whistling in the dark as he passes a cemetery. Anya could hear it in his tune, just a hint of nervousness. His kind of work was best done in the comfort of closed rooms, no doubt. Well, perhaps tonight in this place, they would both learn something. 
She shifted the little box in her lap, and the scent of chocolate wafted up to her nose. She breathed it in. Ahhh, perhaps they’d share a before-dessert sweet. And then, she would return to the inn for a taste of that dark confection in the corner. 
“Hello,” he said, sitting down beside her and rubbing his hands together in the still-damp chill.  “Spooky up here.” 
“Yes, a little. That’s what makes it special.” 
“Really?” He nodded, looking confused. “Makes what special?” 
“This. Meeting you. Here, in this place.” 
He blinked a little, his flicker of expression not lost on her. Perhaps he thought this was going to be easier than he’d anticipated. Perhaps he thought she was another silly spinster with a need for a romantic fling. Well, Anya supposed that wasn’t far off the mark. If she had done her work well, and she was lucky, perhaps he didn’t think at all. She opened the box in her lap, spreading its flaps out and held it out to him. 
“Bite?” 
He smiled and took a small bite of the torte, his eyes never leaving hers. His tongue flicked out, catching a small drizzle of chocolate on his lower lip, and then Anya leaned in and kissed him, tasting deeply. He returned it after a tiny pause of surprise, and was reluctant to let her break it off.
She sat back and almost laughed at the expression on his face. He moved closer to her, putting his hand behind her head, but as he started to kiss her, she thrust a fingerful of the torte into his mouth.  He flinched and laughed, and she kissed him again, harder this time. It was a full minute before they parted again, breathing hard. 
“You’re very beautiful,” he whispered. 
“No, I’m not. But you *will* think so, before this is over.” 
He laughed again. “You’re self-confident.” 
“Oh, yes.” She nibbled his ear. “I am.”

CT - Whispers in the Blood, Part 7 
 

She felt it then. It had been a long time, and she had thought she no longer cared about that kind of thing. Her work, her life back home, it had all fallen into a daily routine that lulled, soothed, suffocated yearning. Tomorrow she would go back to that. But tonight... desire whispered, sang in her blood, and she would take the moment for what it was, with a young lover who *might* remember her afterwards. 

He was kissing, nibbling along the tendon of her neck, causing little sharp stabs of crystalline pleasure. He nipped at her skin, and she tilted her head, opening herself to him, feeling herself feel want, drawing it out to prolong the pleasure, and the sweet pain. 

“Michael,” she breathed, as his fingers fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. Her own hands thrust his jacket over his arms, and he quickly struggled out of it, while she expertly began to unbutton his shirt. She ran her tongue across his throat, feeling the hard little knot of his adam’s apple, and she kissed her way up to his jawline, causing him to moan slightly. Her tongue felt the pulse beating in the little hollow just below his ear. She smiled against his skin. 

“Do you want this?” she asked. 

“Oh, yes, baby,” he said. “Give it to me.” 

“All right,” she sang. “Here it comes.” 

She opened her mouth against the skin of his throat, feeling her special incisors protract and press just... there... 

“I suggest you do not do that.” 
 

CT - Whispers in the Blood, Part 8 
 

She blinked, startled, and jerked her head around to see who had spoken. He stood at the head of the path, just inside the clearing, but it was difficult to make him out clearly. His dark clothing and hair blended with the shadowed woods, so that she could only be sure where he was by the pale gleaming of his face. 

“Who are you?” she asked. 

“Let him go,” he said. 

She looked at Michael, held upright in her arms, his eyes half-closed, obviously under the spell. She hadn’t realized she had gone so far. 

“And why should I?” she said. “What is this to you? I ask again: who are you?” 

He stepped forward, moving closer with feline grace. Her breath caught, and she realized that perhaps here was someone who would sate her far beyond what this boy could do. 

“I am a hunter,” the stranger said in a soft, deep voice that moved across her senses like velvet. “Perhaps you are the one I am hunting.” 

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” She jerked Michael upright by his shirt lapels, partially arousing him from his trance. 

“Michael!” she said sharply, shaking him, and he swallowed and blinked, and looked at her. 

“What?” 

“Go back to the inn. Now.” 

He stood up, obviously dazed. “Wha... What am I doing here? Anya... you and I were having dinner... and then... Who are you?” He frowned at the dark stranger. 

“No one you want to know,” the man said. 

Michael suddenly realized that perhaps he should be afraid. He didn’t know what had just happened to him, but something had, or maybe... almost had. He shook his head, grabbed up his jacket, and stumbled quickly down the path toward the safety of the inn. 

“Care for some torte?” Anya asked brightly. 
 

CT: Whispers in the Blood, Part 9 
 

“It’s very good,” she said, as she took a bite. “Please. Sit down. Let’s talk.” 

The stranger approached calmly and sat down on the stone in Michael’s place. She noted admiringly that he showed no fear whatsoever, even though he seemed perfectly aware of what she was. 

“My name is Anya,” she said. “And you are...?” 

“I am Kai, last of the Brunnen-G.” 

“Oh? Pleased to meet you.” She offered him the torte on its little doily. 

“I do not eat.” 

“Oh, please, just a tiny bite. It’s delicious. You’ll be surprised.” 

Obligingly, he allowed her to place a small piece of the torte --- a piece with a generous amount of the chocolate sauce --- on his tongue. She watched his face closely, idly taking another bite for herself, but whether he swallowed it, or allowed it to melt and absorb, she couldn’t tell. He tilted his head and closed his eyes for an instant, as if he were analyzing the taste, and then he looked at her, and she saw that he had eyes the same color as Michael’s. 

She leaned forward and kissed him, feeling his icy lips, tinged with the taste of chocolate. He did not return the kiss and she sat back, disappointed. 

“Well?” 

“It is...” he seemed to search for the word, and then as if he were using hers, “delicious.” 

“Told you. Now.” She crossed her knees and rested her elbows on them. Clearly she had seriously misjudged this stranger. 

“About this hunting thing you do...” she said. 
 

CT - Whispers in the Blood, Part 10, End 
 

“You are,” he said, “what they call a... vampire?” 

“Tsk.” She tightened her mouth. “Yes, I suppose so. Such a silly, constricting word, all black-capey, Bela Lugosi, theatrical-moody. Doesn’t really describe us, you know. And those wannabes in their black velvet and... piercings, and... oh, God, it’s so embarrassing. It’s a wonder they don’t get a skin rash from all that cheap makeup. I mean, come on. True vampires are just like Baptists. There are a million different kinds.” 

“And what kind are you?” 

“Just your ordinary garden-variety. I’m not even Romanian.” 

Kai lowered his gaze and tilted his head again. She eyed his throat speculatively, but there was something about his scent that was just... wrong. She changed her mind. He didn’t look tasty anymore, but he might be good for a roll in the hay. 

“Have you ever met such a one as I?” he asked. 

“Nope. Can’t say I have.” She shrugged and took a good sniff, not bothering to hide it. “If I had to guess, I’d say you were undead. But not one of us.” 

“That is true. I am dead, but not one of you. Perhaps the one I am hunting is also not one of you.” 

“Probably not. Got a name? I might be able to help. Earth is a kind of cross-roads, you know, so I’ve run into aliens occasionally. Waste of protein, actually, you can’t eat them at all. In fact, there’s a group of them around now, these little annoying carroty things---” 

“What I am looking for is not a carrot.” 

“Oh, too bad. If anything needs eliminating, it’s them. I wouldn’t have killed him, you know.” 

“I understand that your kind are very... efficient... killers.” 

“Well,” she glanced at the castle towers, “yes, I suppose that’s true. Sometimes we get carried away, and for me, well, it *has* been a long time. But I don’t *think* I would have killed him. I didn’t intend to, anyway.” 

“Killing without intending to is not efficient.” 

“Suppose not. Look, I see I really can’t help you, so I’ll be saying good night.” 

She started to stand and was promptly jerked back down by his powerful grip on her arms. He planted his mouth on hers, probing deeply with his cold tongue, tasting faintly of the chocolate torte. She went weak, surrendering herself to him. Oh, yes, she thought. Take me, take me. When he broke the kiss, she threw her head back, open and vulnerable to whatever he desired. 

He held her a moment without moving. She lifted her head and cracked open an eye. He was looking at her, but not seeing her. In fact, it looked like... yes, he was! He was analyzing again! 

“For God’s sake,” she said, sitting up, and he let go of her. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a less-than-fun date?” 

“I am not a date. And you are not the one I am seeking.” 

“Well, dang my luck. Guess you had to make sure, huh.” She stood up, brushing off her skirt. “I’m going back to the inn now, to try and salvage what’s left of my evening. Maybe Michael will still talk to me, and thanks to you, I’ve got a raging appetite. Happy hunting.” 

He stood also, towering over her. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that. My friends Stan and Xev are there.” 

“So?” 

“If you cannot persuade this... Michael... to give himself to you, you might decide to hunt elsewhere. I cannot let you endanger my friends.” 

“Look, pal. For several centuries now, I’ve gone where and when I like, and eaten *whom* I liked. If you don’t like it, that’s your tough luck.” 

She never saw it coming, in fact hardly felt it, but she heard the scream and knew instantaneously what had happened. She looked down, in time to see the... whatever it was fly back to him. He adjusted something on his wrist, looking at her with... regret? After so many centuries, she couldn’t feel a lot of regret for herself, but she took some satisfaction in seeing it in his eyes. 

“This is so not fair,” she said to him, just before she dissipated into dust. 

“The dead,” he said, looking up at the castle, “are not fair.”