"Well! Some friends," she says, then winks. "Leaving me alone, defenseless "You want the old vampire to bite you, eh?" I hiss. "You want a story for your friends?"

Fila laughs. Her horror is a round, genuine thing, bouncing in both her black eyes. She smells like hard water and glycerin. The hum of her young life all around me makes it difficult to think. A bat filters my thoughts, opens its trembling lampshade wings.

Magreb. She'll want to hear about this. How ridiculous, at my age, to find myself down this alley with a young girl: Fila powdering her neck, doing her hair up with little temptress pins, yanking me behind this Dumpster. "Can you imagine," Magreb will laugh, "a teenager goading you to attack her! You're still a menace, Clyde."

I stare vacantly at a pale mole above the girl's collarbone. Magreb, I think again, and I smile; and the smile feels like a muzzle. It seems my hand has tightened on the girl's wrist, and I realize with surprise, as if from a great distance, that she is twisting away.

"Hey, nonno, come on now, what are you-"

The girl's head lolls against my shoulder like that of a sleepy child, then swings forward in a rag-doll circle. The starlight is white mercury compared to her blotted-out eyes. There's a dark stain on my periwinkle shirt, and one suspender has snapped. I sit Fila's body against the alley wall, watch it dim and stiffen. Spidery graffiti weaves over the brick behind her, and I scan for some answer contained there: Giovanna & Fabiano. Vaffanculo! Vai in Culo.

A scabby-furred creature, our only witness, arches its orange back against the Dumpster. If not for the lock I would ease the girl inside. I would climb in with her and let the red stench fill my nostrils, let the flies crawl into the red corners of my eyes. I am a monster again.

I ransack Fila's pockets and find the key to the funicular office, careful not to look at her face. Then I'm walking, running for the lemon grove. I jimmy my way into the control room and turn the silver key, relieved to hear the engine roar to life. Locked, locked, every car is locked, but then I find one with thick tape in Xs over a busted door. I dash after it and pull myself onto the cushion, quickly, because the ears are already moving. The box jounces and trembles. The chain pulls me into the heavens link by link.

My lips are soon chapped; I stare through a crack in the gla.s.s window. The box swings wildly in the wind. The sky is a deep blue vacuum. I can still smell the girl in the folds of my clothes.

The cave system is vaster than I expected; and with their grandfather faces tucked away, the bats are anonymous as stones. I walk beneath a chandelier of furry bodies, heartbeats wrapped in wings the color of rose petals or corn silk. Breath ripples through each of them, a tiny life in its translucent envelope.

"Magreb?"

Is she up here?

Has she left me?

(I will never find another vampire.).

I double back to the moonlit entrance, the funicular cars. When I find Magreb, I'll beg her to tell me what she dreams up here. I'll tell her my waking dreams in the lemon grove: the mortal men and women floating serenely by in balloons freighted with the ballast of their deaths. Millions of balloons ride over a wide ocean, lives darkening the sky. Death is a dense powder cinched inside tiny sandbags, and in the dream I am given to understand that instead of a sandbag I have Magreb.

I make the bats' descent in a cable car with no wings to spread, knocked around by the wind with a force that feels personal. I struggle to hold the door shut and look for the green speck of our grove.

The box is plunging now, far too quickly. It swings wide, and the igneous surface of the mountain fills the left window. The tufa shines like water, like a black, heatbubbled river. For a disorienting moment I expect the rock to seep through the gla.s.s.

Each swing takes me higher than the last, a grinding pendulum that approaches a full revolution around the cable. I'm on my hands and knees on the car floor, seasick in the high air, pressing my face against the floor grate. I can see stars or boats burning there, and also a ribbon of white, a widening fissure. Air gushes through the cracks in the gla.s.s box.

What does Magreb see, if she can see? Is she waking from a nightmare to watch the line snap, the gla.s.s box plummet? From her inverted vantage, dangling from the roof of the cave, does the car seem to be sucked upward, rushing not toward the sea but to another Sort of sky? To a black mouth open and foaming with stars?

I like to picture my wife like this: Magreb shuts her thin eyelids tighter. She digs her claws into the rock. Little clouds of dust rise around her toes as she swings upside down. She feels something growing inside her, unstoppable as a dreadful suspicion. It is solid, this new thing, it is the opposite of hunger. She's emerging from a dream of distant thunder, rumbling and loose. Something has happened tonight that she thought impossible. In the morning, she will want to tell me about it.

Vampire Anonymous.

Nancy Kilpatrick.

Award-winning author Nancy Kilpatrick has published eighteen novels, around two hundred short stories, one nonfiction book (The Goth Bible) and edited ten anthologies. She writes mainly horror, dark fantasy, mysteries, and erotica. She is currently working on two new novels. Some of her recent short fiction appears in: Blood Lite and Blood Lite 2: Overbite, h.e.l.lbound Heart, The Bleeding Edge, The Living Dead, Don Juan and Men, Vampires: Dracula and the Undead Legions, By Blood We Live, The Bitten Word, Campus Chills, Chilling Tales, and Darkness on the Edge. She recently co-edited (with David Morrell) the horror/dark fantasy anthology Tesseracts Thirteen and edited (solo) the anthology Evolve: Vampire Stories of the New Undead. She has just finished editing a sequel to Evolve, to be published in 2011. Her graphic novel Nancy Kilpatrick's Vampyre Theatre will be out in early 2011, and a collector's edition of the erotic horror series The Darker Pa.s.sions began in December 2010. Her website is www.nancykilpatrick.com.

In case you missed it from the above, Kilpatrick-among other things-has written quite a number of vampire stories. In "Vampires Anonymous" she manages to bring the archetype right up to date while still referencing its grand traditions.

Vampire Anonymous.

Mortals! Enter freely and of your own free will!

All may post in the section marked VICTIMS.

with absolutely no a.s.surance that your post will ever receive a written response!

To post on this site: VICTIMS will only be accepted once personal info is submitted: Name: ________________________________________________ Address: _______________________________________________ Phone number: _______________________________________ Email Address: ________________________________________ Age: _____ Internet Name: _____________________________ Gender (not optional): M / F VICTIMS:.

Hey man, cool site so far! Cool images. Well, cool fangs, anyway. Looking forward to some chillin' words 'o wisdom from the great Undead!"

Your Boi Georgie.

I find the idea of a new vampire blog intoxicating. I just hope you don't resort to the mundane cliches so many pseudo vampires do. In darkness . . . Lucrezia Am SOOOOO lovin' this! Hozit feel ded? LUV 2 B U! xxooxx-Lisa.

Not too many blogs have a chat function for the general public. WTG!

Your Boi Georgie.

This is the stupidest blog I've ever seen. f.u.c.k off! Nightmare on Elm I've yearned to be a vampire. And now you're here! I can tell just from the visuals that my dreams are coming true! Dark Angel Nightmare on Elm, you obviously don't possess the sensibilities for this blog. Perhaps U should go elsewhere for entertainment. Maybe there's a Freddie blog somewhere. Lucrezia Screw U bimbo!" Nightmare on Elm.

Vampires Anonymous rule! b.i.t.c.hin'! Your Boi Georgie.

Testament #1.

Those perusing this site will surely wonder if you exist. Out there. In here. You do not wonder where is here, meaning this cyber world. It is a place for hiding, a realm of disguises, the realm of the Giaour. Or, as your contemporary Edgar Allan would have put it, a veritable "Masque of the Red Death" virtual ball. Hence no Facebook or My s.p.a.ce but a unique invention where you remain anonymous and yet your VICTIMS reveal all! After all, one who dwells in the land between Heaven and Earth cannot remain surrept.i.tious when forced to expose details, and this is, after all, your blog!

But OTOH, you must reluctantly acknowledge that the world of phosphors isn't exactly foreign terrain. Anyone in doubt can read the poem "Darkness." Reality is a fine weave of the senses, is it not? The five mundane senses, and that elusive sixth. You can frolic in any of those arenas, yet most often you are relegated to what is not seen, heard, felt, touched or tasted. You are the intangible. Others know you exist, but may not admit it. For lack of a better word-which they likely find unp.r.o.nounceable-they call you The Vampyre.

Enough tedious philosophizing. In this, your first blog entry, you must cater to the VICTIMS, who are-your tongue-firmly-in-your-cheek-dying to learn something of you. Here it is, a tidbit. A veritable b.l.o.o.d.y morsel, gouged from your beatless heart and offered on this microchip plate: You were born in 1788, just five years before the French Revolution, not that you are French, nor have you ever been revolting, as it were, at least not to your own mind. Mileage varies as they say. Some may beg to differ.

There! A British-ism has crept into that previous paragraph, betraying your ancestry. You are not ashamed of your past. Why should you be? All creatures born must adjust to their circ.u.mstances, or die. But sometimes they die anyway, when circ.u.mstances prove unnatural or, if the VICTIMS prefer, supernatural. Die and revive. As did you. Fate is a b.i.t.c.h.

But you were birthed during the long and diseased reign of the vegetarian king George III, who suffered porphyria. Anyone who has found this blog is a true vampyre, or a wanna be, and in either situation knows about the "vampire disease." For the uninitiated: The Symptoms: sensitivity to sunlight, receding gums (all the better for the fangs to show!), b.l.o.o.d.y urine, etc. etc. Oh, and the incessant talking. They say George 3 once chatted non-stop for fifty-eight hours! Half the time reciting "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" and other a.s.sorted poems. But enough of this tedious medical trivia. You are not an encyclopedia. Anyone desiring to know the symptoms of porphyria can b.l.o.o.d.y well go look them up!

You met George 3 in his dotage. George, with whom you shared a first name. It wasn't long after the turn of the 19th century, years before your "official" death, but not before your death to life as it is generally understood. The monarch, then in his eighties, had been exiled to Windsor Castle where he was more or less left to his own devices. He'd gone both blind and deaf. The first night as you entered the castle at his invitation, it was clear to you that no one looked after the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Indeed, his eldest son had already been named Regent, antic.i.p.ating the ancient one's demise. George had gone quite bonkers. He mistook you first for the wind, then a ghostly friend. Only the insane seem to notice the presence of your kind. Isn't it peculiar that the lucid tend to rationalize cold drafts, fleeting shades, barely heard whispers, while those who have lost their marbles see more clearly the shadows? The insane and the bards of this world, and perhaps visual artists, but you digress.

Poor George had stopped shaving for quite some time and sported a scraggly, wiry beard that brushed the middle of his chest, about heart level. Sleepless, he wandered the dank castle halls garbed in a regally purple dressing gown with his Garter star pinned to his chest. You did not believe he knew that his wife Charlotte had died, but then he did not seem to have a clue that his own demise was eminent. At your hands.

Yes, before the unsettling thought enters any mortal heads, you want to make it perfectly clear that back then you still retained vestiges of human emotion and felt sorry for perhaps the kindest, most fair-minded of British monarchs. In your lifetime no one would have called you selfless. In fact, your reputation was the opposite. Still, due no doubt to Hours of Idleness, you helped George to his end as a generous if yet selfish act. To this day, you still remember the texture of his parchment skin, and the sour taste of his thin blood, the coppery element common in human vitae all but missing from the liquid weakly spurting from his aorta, replaced by something more acrid. His skinny chicken neck and the prolapsed veins and arteries proved difficult to work with and, back in the day, you found this not esthetically pleasing. Still, these aspects of George to the third power did not prove insurmountable, but the process of piercing him became extended. Oddly, his rummy eyes found yours as you moved in close to bite him. He smiled with his eyes and his lips and murmured something endearing which you've forgotten, though you do recall that he whispered Sarah, a reference no doubt to the lovely Lady Sarah Lennox of whom George was enamored in his youth-before his mother bollixed that romance.

Never mind The Dream. Sentiment be d.a.m.ned. Your dagger-sharp incisors sliced through the emaciated flesh to allow what blood he possessed to trickle like hot treacle between your eager lips, quenching the dire thirst which has since become perpetual, that drives your every waking moment. When We Two Parted and it was done and his corpse lay crumpled on the floor at your feet, you, who sported the t.i.tle Lord, who loved and was loved by many including your sister, you who enjoyed early fame if not fortune in the realm of realms literature, you came to a startling discovery: blue blood is not nearly as satisfying as red blood. It was at that moment that you decided you would, once your death had been staged in Greece, move to America.

VICTIMS:.

This old one is soooo amazing! I really want to meet YOU. Lucrezia Y R so real, VA! Keep the stories commin' xxooxx-Lisa Man, there's like SO many people on here now. Get a life, folks! Nightmare Why don't YOU get a life, Nightmare! Lucrezia I'm new here. I'm not sure what's going on. Harry Lewis Well, Harry Lewis, you've hit the pit of h.e.l.l where all these morons are talking about vampires. Get out before the stake swings in your direction! Nightmare Welcome, Harry. You are fortunate to be here and we are fortunate to meet you. We are in the presence of an Old One who has lived many centuries and shares with us his dark history. George Gordon Byron. Dark Angel Lord Byron? The poet? Impressive. Harry Lewis Yeah, right! Nightmare I've waited one entire month for another entry. Please, kind vampire sir, the esteemed Lord Byron, bestow upon us another tale! Lucrezia How come you talk like you're in some Anne Rice book? Nightmare Where's Your Boy Georgie? He hasn't posted lately. Dark Angel No idea. xxooxx-Lisa People come, people go. Only those of us with deeper sensibilities remain. Dark Angel Like you, airhead? Nightmare.

Honestly, I don't know why you're still here! You think its all c.r.a.p, so just go somewhere else. Lucrezia.

Hey, I'm hangin' to see just how stupid you people can get! Nightmare.

Testament #2.

You observe that your list of VICTIMS has grown. Furiously they post between your monthly entries, when la luna fills, when you fill. Let them speak with one another! You have no need to respond. That is not your concern, although you will miss Your Boi Georgie who seems to have . . . vanished. Arrivederci, bello!

Still, what a strange phenomenon, human beings desperate to befriend a vampiro. And after centuries on this Earth, you thought you'd seen it all!

If you are nuovo, you have arrived at Vampire Anonymous, where the undead speak and the living listen. Come one, come all! Enter freely, but enter at your own risk (especially you, lovely Lucrezia.) All have been warned! What more can you do?

One VICTIM in particular you find intriguing, at least the photo-those long dark tresses, eyes obsidian almonds accentuated by black kohl from the Orient, lips as red as virgin blood, skin corpse white. Si, Lucrezia, you are a look-alike for she for whom you are named. An homage to the Renaissance beauty Valencian Borgia, famous for her poison rings. Do you own a poison ring? What type of poison does it contain? Would you let me touch your ring, taste your poison?

Ha! Lucrezia Borgia. Her beauty was renowned. Her lips red pa.s.sion, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s fruits for your lips . . . You remember her well. How could you not remember your sister?

Back then, you carried the mortal name of Cesare, bequeathed by your despotic "padre," Pope Alexander VI. Yes, at that time, Papa equated with King, and this office incorporated a different meaning than it does today. At least you believe so. Be that as it may, ultimately, you were forced to kill your father, an all too common action. Then. Now. Oedipus Rules!

You were fortunate to have been born vampiro and did not need to suffer the transition to this eternal existence. Naturally, you were a beautiful child who grew tall and handsome, dark wavy locks swirling down to your shoulders, hypnotic black almond eyes that lured everyone-hair and eyes like your sister's, like the lovely VICTIM Lucrezia.

Your parentage remained somewhat obscure, at least on the paternal side. But full of ambition, you were destined for grandi cose. At the tender age of fifteen, you were appointed Bishop of Pamplona, and at eighteen Cardinal. Of course, you were more or less forced to resign that last post, becoming the first Cardinal in history to do so. This, at the "request" of your father, who needed you to head the military when your oh-so-beloved brother Giovanni met his untimely end. An end that involved your teeth at his throat!

Leaving the church for a more mundane if volatile profession had its perks. For a brief time you employed Leonardo da Vinci as an architect and engineer, although that didn't last long. You found the artist, like all artists, annoyingly arrogant. His blood, though, contained a certain heady quality, like a vino grown with fat antique Sicilian grapes.

During your military career, you also had occasion to meet and befriend Niccol Machiavelli, a brilliant a.n.a.lyst, who resided at court for just over one year until you brought him, too, to an undead state. You wonder how many VICTIMS recognize that his seminal work The Prince is largely based on your military and political strategies?

In any event, it was the French King Louis XII aka the Duck of Orleans-he of The Crusades, and the defeated in the four decades of pointless wars with Italy-it was he who dubbed you Duke of Valentinois, hence your nickname Valentino. Is it possible that any VICTIM recalls your reinvention in the early part of the twentieth century as a fabulously famous film star of the silent screen? A mesmeric star, hypnotic, especially the eyes. Si, bello, the vampiro charm! Yes, you have gotten around.

Suffice it to say that you had always been a Prince of Darkness. Sadly, though, your body "died," at least officially, yet you resurrected and your unnatural state became permanent during a siege at the age of thirty-one. Had you not been so near dissolution of mortality already suffering symptoms of third stage syphilis, you most certainly would have fought courageously to preserve not just the physical body, despite its pathetic condition, but also the anima immortale. But mortal death would have happened eventually. And logic was always your strong suit. Better to leave with a pleasing body intact, which is a state you bestow on your food sources. Live fast, die young, leave a corpse you would be proud of! But, as they say nowadays, ci e la vita: such is life. Or, in your case, living death. One cannot predict nor do much to change Fate. You had always found acting out the role of undead to be a humorous enterprise.

But of course the VICTIMS are modern and bored with history and long explanations and want nothing more than to know the connections, for example, to sweet poisonous-ringed Lucrezia, your sister. She became your lover at an early age-relationships like that happened back then. She even birthed your child. And you birthed both of them to a new existence, an eternal life that the church fathers had not envisioned.

VICTIM Lucrezia entertains thoughts of being your lover. Perhaps she is your sister, now living incognito in Kalamazoo, Michigan, as her personal information states. She would like you to taste her blood and compare it with your darling sibling's, trace memories of which still linger within you. Shared DNA. Sharing so much more! Blood is thicker than any important liquid. It travels through the centuries and finds its way to you again. Ah, but fantasy is everything is it not, il mio amore Lucrezia? Tantalizing fantasy, meshed with the reality of the vampiro. Come! We are famiglia. Take my hand, sorella! I desire to taste your blood. Again . . .

VICTIMS:.

Where's Lucrezia? Lisa.

She hasn't logged on in weeks! Morticia.

Maybe she finally got a life! NoE She's probably busy. Harry Lewis Yeah, playing Vampire the Masquerade! NoE.

Perhaps she's stepped over into the Other Realm? Dark Angel Is that not what you did? Sorry for my English, I'm Swiss. Nosferatu Of course not! I have not yet been called. Dark Angel You mean excuse you being Swiss! NoE.

That's racist! Harry Lewis You mean nationalist, doofus! NoE.

Guys, chill! Lisa Hi! I'm new! Sin-de And oh-so-perky! NoE Leave her alone! Don't listen to him, Sin-de. He's our Resident Evil. Morticia Welcome! Dark Angel Welcome. Harry Lewis Wavin'-Lisa I'm new too. Vampira Hiya! Harry Lewis This place is so crowded! Sin-de We are the regular posters but there are others. Dark Angel So, who's this guy posting this vampire stuff? Vampira It is all in the posts. Dark Angel It's all in the Prozac. NoE What's NoE? North of Erie? Sin-de Nightmare on Elm. Lisa Nightmare on Elm. Harry Lewis n.o.body Owns Elvira. Dark Angel Wouldn't you like to know? NoE Duh, that's why she asked. Vampira Guys, chill!! Lisa We must be respectful of the blogger's s.p.a.ce. Or as Lucrezia would say: Why is it only girls are human? Dark Angel Hi. I'm Elizabeth. But you can call me Black Lily. Black Lily More females, yes! Nosferatu When's the next post? I'm bored. NoE He posts on the full moon, as anyone intelligent could figure out. Dark Angel Hi Black Lily. Welcome to h.e.l.l! Vampira.

Testament #3.

So many lany, so very little time. I am amazed at how the gentler s.e.x finds it way to me, lepkek-hoz egy lang or, as the English speakers say, moths to the flame. There! I have already tarnished my reputation as a high-born lady by littering this site with cliches. I am an educated woman, an exceptional creature for the place and time of my birth-Hungary, 1560. Destined to be a Countess or to carry some other high-born t.i.tle, I learned at my mother's knee to read and write four languages and a smattering of three others at a time when women received little or no education. But this d.a.m.ned English language! It stymies me now, so lacking as it is in innuendo. In any event, I am known to all of you already, I am quite sure. Countess Erzsebet Bathory, aka the b.l.o.o.d.y Lady of achtice. And now you will hear the truth!

How can I convey my extraordinary life to you VICTIMS who speak with one another electronically and share but an image that may or may not reflect who you are? I can only tell each of you, my precious little ones, that four hundred and fifty years ago life was primitive by today's standards, even for those of us of n.o.ble birth. Primitive and dangerous.

Luckily, I was somewhat protected. For the daughter of parents directly related to two distinguished vivodes, or warlords, of Transylvania, and niece of the King of Poland, how could it have been otherwise? In fact, I was next in line to be Queen of Poland, a task for which I was eminently suited and one which met my ambitions.

At the tender age of eleven, I was were already betrothed for political reasons to a rather rough soldier named Ferenc Nadasdy who stank of garlic morning, noon and night. My parents sent me to Nadasdy Castle in Sarvar. It was not against my will. Perhaps you cannot grasp the concept of an arranged marriage. Such unions were the practice everywhere among the wealthy and this one spoke to the goals of my parents as well as my own. Betrothal is not marriage, and even as a young girl I was keenly aware of the difference. A charming peasant in the village-a blacksmith as I recall-took my maidenhead-oh did I bleed! My first enrapture with blood! From that union I suffered a stillborn daughter. The G.o.ds owed me!

You must indulge me. I love talking about myself. So much has been written about me, and I think you should all know the truth. And where better to hear it than from my own, perfect lips!

Yes, you guessed it, I was an exquisite girl, my beauty legendary, and the times were such that four years later Nadasdy, smitten with me, forgave my indiscretions and married me anyway. Perhaps the best part of the marriage was his wedding gift to me, his home achtice Castle, situated in the Carpathian Mountains near Trenin, together with the achtice country house and seventeen adjacent villages.

Ferenc was reasonable for a man, but a soldier to the core, and a beautiful, young, intelligent wife could not hold the attention for long of a man who longed for battle. Three years after the nuptials he was appointed chief commander of the Hungarian troops and off to war for much of the remainder of the marriage. I'll just say that I was not heart-broken.

Managing such a vast estate and being charged with protecting our lands, especially during more than a decade of war, took up much of my time, yes, but not all. There were servants, many, to be managed. The role of Countess is exhausting, yet I fulfilled my responsibilities, even intervening in the causes of peasant women who needed help for one thing or another.

Then, one day, I had a rude awakening. In my silvered hand mirror I found a shocking sight. My flawless porcelain skin, famous in four countries, showed signs of aging. A wrinkle here, a sag there . . . How had I not noticed before? But I did now, and the awareness. .h.i.t deep in my chest. At that very moment a szolga or servant girl had been brushing my hair and allowed the boar's bristles to tangle in my dark tresses, yanking my head back sharply. Instinctively, I slapped her, hard enough that a drop of blood splattered onto my cheek. Mesmerized, I stared in the mirror, watching the vitae drip down my skin. Impulsively, I rubbed the glistening ruby liquid into my cheek. And it seemed to me then that the flesh on that side of my face took on a new hue, a glow of vitality.

This discovery led to musing and long discussions with several of my most trusted and loyal servants, including Dorka who was closer to me than the others. We came to the conclusion that the blood produced an alchemical transformation. Blood was the answer, the elixir guaranteed to stave off the ravages of time.

One thing, as they say, led to another. At first, with Dorka's help, I drew blood from the servants, but the stupid girls resisted my humane methods and quickly we resorted to the whip. Dorka used the hide liberally and I admit that from time to time I took a turn flailing. The blood of the screaming peasant girls who unfortunately often perished in the experiment was gathered and applied to my face and, astonished, I immediately saw the change occur. Suddenly I looked younger, as if I had discovered the Spanish explorer Juan Ponce de Leon's Fountain of Youth.

I acknowledge to you all now that perhaps I allowed Dorka and the others to go too far. They not only whipped but they burned, froze, starved and bit girls, needles under the fingernails, and mutilation of faces and genitalia, all in an effort to, as they a.s.sured me, "excite the ver and render it more potent" which, at the time, seemed a reasonable avenue to pursue.

Several years pa.s.sed and it occurred to me that what worked magic on the face and the neck would transform just as well skin on the entire body. I knew that in order to achieve the desired effect I needed a constant supply of girls. Too quickly I ran out of expendable servants and was forced to bring in female peasant from the villages, lured to the castle with the promise of well-paid work as maidservants. The job required living at the castle full-time, no days off as you modern workers are offered. Consequently these girls never returned home. No one missed them. They were hung upside down, their veins sliced open, their precious offerings caught in my bath. My skin stayed lovely and fresh as the day I'd wed Ferenc. For a time, all was well.

Then, on another fateful day, I stared in my d.a.m.ned mirror lamenting that I was no longer the fairest in the land, despite daily treatments with the magic potent. I became furious and threw the mirror against the wall, shattering it to bits. Dorka, as always, comforted me. She brought me to the realization that it was some basic coa.r.s.eness in the blood of these paraszt that left my skin unnourished. Dorka insisted that I required refined blood, and the only way to have that would be to acquire refined donors.

Through my many contacts I was able to invite the daughters of n.o.bles to my home, ostensibly to be trained in the ways of the aristocracy. I generously offered to be their mentor, a.s.suring these young women would possess the manners, skills and intelligence needed to function at the level of society to which they aspired-one level up. I was overwhelmed with requests to take in these well-born girls and tutor them. You can see that I had little choice in the matter. Fate called me to preservation.

I procured a house in Bucharest on a small street that has today come to be called Blood Alley. This is where I met these refined girls as they came to the city. With the help of a German clockmaker, I created a design, ingenious if I say so myself, and far ahead of its time. I called it the Iron Virgin-a later design which imitated my own was known as the Iron Maiden. But I named this Virgin for I had realized rather early on the exquisite and dramatic effects of virgin blood which far outweighed that of non-virgins. Anyway, the device allowed me to imprison a girl in a sarcophagus then hoist the apparatus to the ceiling. Within this iron structure with its painted blue eyes, the yellow hair of one of my prettier princesses and the white perfect teeth of another, were long spikes that, as the door slammed shut and automatically locked, pierced the flesh in such a manner and in so many places that the blood was permitted to flow freely down to a tub below in which I was immersed. With a small leap of the imagination I am certain you can envision my ecstasy. Any woman could.

I can still recall the sharp, sweet aroma and the tangy-sweet taste as the vitae engulfed my flesh, the hot blood burning through my skin, altering it with its magical properties, transforming what had become old and tired and revitalizing my body. I reveled in the blood. It filled my mouth, my nose, and I gulped it down greedily, allowing it to burn away from the inside the dross of age and reveal the hidden, nearly lost beauty of my youth. Call it early Botox!

I am certain that each girl VICTIM understands my pursuit, my desire to stay attractive at any price. And if you do not now understand it, you will!

These n.o.ble girls performed a service for me. I took possession of their youth gratefully and they gave up their lives in the same way, gratefully, at least in their hearts. A symbiosis. A sacrifice. For the greater good. Isn't that obvious?

In any event, I continued in this way for many years, retaining my beauty to the amazement of those in my social circle. During this time, at age forty-four, I became a widow, barely noticing. Ferenc had been absent for some years. He died at the hand of a general, or having been killed in battle, or murdered by a prost.i.tute in Bucharest whom he refused to pay-take your pick. I had little interest in his fate. And upon his demise I inherited his wealth and consequently had no shortage of suitors lured as much by my youthful beauty as by the hope of marrying my money and power. But I barely tolerated these leeches. Especially now that I was in direct line for the throne. I was, you see, on the verge of becoming the Queen of Poland! And now, sweet VICTIMS, you understand the greater good, do you not?

Alas, nothing continues forever. Mine was a political era and rumors abounded about illicit practices involving witchcraft at my estate and at my house in Bucharest. While the deaths of peasant girls were tolerated or ignored, the offspring of n.o.bles was duly noted. Eventually, in 1610, I was brought to trial, found guilty of twenty-five years of abuses. Three of my most trusted servants were burned alive as witches, including Dorka. From my window I watch her body blacken, her dark hair catch fire and all the while I listened as her screams filled my ears.

I was charged with bringing about the deaths through s.a.d.i.s.tic torture of 650 girls, an absurd number. Although I kept no written records, I did compile a tally in my head and the numbers had been triple that, at least!

During this sham trial I refused to respond with the regret or remorse expected. After all, I was a Countess and did not deign to address their ridiculous accusations. Consequently, without being found guilty because of my station, I received the harshest punishment-I were walled up alive in the tower of my own castle where I remained for the next three years, being fed through a slot like an animal. Were the powers-that-be concerned with the deaths? Of course not! The entire charade of a trial was a strategic move on the part of the then heads of state to usurp my land and my wealth, which they did, and to keep me from ascending to the throne. A woman then had few legal recourses.

Ah, but did I not have the last laugh? You see, the blood not only changed my skin but it altered every aspect of my being, body and soul. Not only did I return to youth, but that youth became eternal, and my taste for blood infinite.