My guest follows me from the ball room and we leave it to its fond and distant memories of gayer times. I stand at the foot of the stairs and wait a moment as Randall’s eyes sweep this great and beautiful chamber like a child’s in a sweet shop. I tune myself into his mind, a subtle little trick that each of us are endowed with when blessed with the gift. It is different for each of us and strengthens through time and with experience. Most of us are able to actually hear the thoughts of others like words spoken within our minds. Some, myself included, are granted with a rarer, altogether more powerful talent, that of empathy.

Instead of actually being able to read thoughts as words, we are able to read feelings. It is so much deeper than telepathy. It begins with flashes of alien feelings. That is to say, we begin to experience anger, joy, fear, ecstasy, even love. Yes, love. These feelings come in a direct contrast to what we ourselves are feeling at the time. We may be in the midst of a murderous rage and yet, all of a sudden, you feel an overwhelming sense of joy and you know, just know, that this new feeling is not yours. All vampires are subject to limited empathic abilities but some us, can develop it. Personally, I think it is part and parcel of the thirst. We, as a race, more often than not, generate great fear in our prey especially when we stalk them first. And somehow, I know not the science behind it, but somehow, the blood from a frightened food source, tastes all the sweeter. There is something in their fear that flavours the blood exquisitely. It may sound farfetched but then again, I have heard that organically reared and free range animals, taste sweeter than farm processed ones and that the meat is all the more tender.

I can feel Randall’s sense of wonder and grandeur as he looks about the hall. His mind becomes a whirlwind of dates and episodes in history as he gazes fondly upon the suits of armour, the weaponry and shields that adorn my green plastered walls. His artistic senses rear and whinny like wild mustangs as his sight lovingly caresses my many tapestries. It is so long since I experienced wonder like this in one of my guests. And I, out of a sense of boasting and vanity, would love to dearly regale him with the history of each piece but he has come with a specific goal in mind and to explain just the items in the Great Hall alone, would take a decade. Maybe, providing I don’t eat him afterwards, he would return to my home for another visit and maybe, just maybe, he will bring his delightful Editor, Gaynor, for whom he holds such high esteem, with him. At length, Randall realises I am waiting for him and he blushes a little.

“Forgive me Highness. You have an unbelievable collection.” he says.

“Thank you my friend. They have been collected over many, many years. Centuries in fact and some of the items are quite a lot older than I am.”

“I would love to study the history surrounding them.” he replies, a faraway look in his eyes.

“And it would give me great pleasure to narrate that history my friend, for have no doubt, every item you see in here, has a story to tell. But come, I will show you what you originally came for. I would not wish to send you back empty handed and risk disappointing your Editor, Gaynor.”

He nods and follows me up the long, graceful sweep of my Tulip Staircase. I hear him gasp, as one by one, the candelabras flash and come alive as we pass them.

“Forgive me,” I smile mischievously over my shoulder. “A little party trick I picked up from a friend a long time ago. I believe in your world, it is referred to as pyrokinesis.”

“The ability to start fires by the power of thought.” he murmurs.

“A vulgar display of power I know,” I reply, “but as I have said, it is so long since I have had the chance to entertain and I cannot resist in showing off a little. The lighting by the way is for your benefit alone. I can see better in the dark than you can in broad daylight.” I smile seductively to myself as I pick up on his trepidation. He is wondering if he can escape into the darkness should I decide to turn on him. His heart rate increases and his pulse begins to throb. I can even smell the slight perspiration from him. I decide to put him out of his misery.

“No my dear Randall and should I decide to turn, not darkness, guile, speed or strength would be your ally.” And then, just to show him what he would be up against, I move. Oh what a delight his senses are. It is like an all you can eat buffet presented to a starving man. In the blink of an eye, quite literally a split second, I have moved from the step above his, to the landing at the top of the stairs, some twenty feet as the crow flies. He is still blinking and looking at the trail of light from the candles. I give him just enough time for his eyes to reach me and then I move again.

“Down here Herr Stone.” I call from the foot of the stairs. He spins around awkwardly, almost falls, but then he rights himself. His mouth drops open.

I suddenly tap him on the shoulder from the step above him. He turns and jumps visibly… Backwards. As he loses his fight with gravity, I move instantly behind him and save him from falling. My arms are around him and I know that if I just exert a tiny fraction of my strength, I could reduce his rib cage to mere splinters. I croon softly into his ear.

“You see my dear Randall, even if I were blind and you could hold your breath for an hour at a time, the beating of your heart, the very movement of blood through your veins, even your body heat, which I can feel from over five hundred feet away, would all betray your hiding place. However, you have two things going for you. First of all, had I decided to attack, you would have been nothing but a dried up husk before even one foot had touched my courtyard. Secondly and, more importantly, I genuinely like you. Since our very first meeting you have conducted yourself with dignity and decorum. Your manners are impeccable and you have gone out of your way treat me, a Royal Prince, the way I am accustomed to being treated. For that, I thank you.” I move away from him and we resume our journey up the stairs. He puts a trembling hand to his neck and I feel the relief sweep through him.

“I apologise Highness if I have offended you in any way.” he says. I stop and face him, placing a gentle hand upon his still, trembling shoulder.

“My friend,” I say softly, “you have done nothing that warrants an apology. If one was to be punished for how one feels, then your race would have ceased to be long ago. And, as my race subsists on yours, we would not be having this conversation now.”

“You can read my feelings?” he asks with surprise. I nod and smile and then go on to explain how this part of the gift works. He listens with astonishment and I realise just how little humans know of my species.

We stop on the landing, a balcony that overlooks the hall, where orchestras once played to arriving guests. To our left and to our right, are two huge corridors, the Long Gallery, upon whose walls hang the portraits of my ancestors. It is here that I intend to regale Randall with tales of my decadent family history but, for the moment, I draw his attention to a glass case in which lies an ancient tome. Within its pages reside the history of some of my lesser known and subservient members of my race.

“To your right and to your left, Randall, are the north and south wings of Castle Bamberg or, as I refer to it, the Long Gallery. Here you will meet members of my illustrious family, all with a tale to chill your bones. But I thought this may be of some interest to you first.” I step aside and present the glass case for his inspection.

“Within the pages of this tome you will come face to face with the cockroaches of my species. The peasants who were inadvertently turned, due to one unfortunate circumstance or another. How are you with the Serbian dialect?”

“Sorry, Serbian?” he asks.

“Serbian, yes.” I indulge him. “Do you speak it?”

“Oh, no. Sorry, I don’t.”

“Well, not to worry. I shall read it for you, if that is acceptable.”

“That would be perfectly acceptable Your Highness.”

“Please, call me Blutsauger.” I take the book out. On either side of the glass case are two doors. I bid my guest to follow me through the one to the right.

I lead Randall into my personal study. The walls are filled with bookcases which in turn, are filled with books. I place the heavy candelabra on a small round table and wave my hand lazily. Immediately I feel the power rush from my tingling finger tips and the candles in the wall brackets ignite into flaming existence. The dark, cold fire place suddenly bursts into flame, making the logs crackle and spit. With another wave of my hand, I move and turn one of two, plush, 19th century, wing backed reading chairs.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” I bid my guest. As he sits himself before the roaring fire, I bring over a decanter of rare, ruby port. It was bottled in the year 1732 and is an original from the town of Oporto in Portugal. A true vintage. As I position my chair facing his, I place the decanter and two cut crystal wine glasses on a small elbow table.

I see Randall run an appraising eye over the glasses and the decanter. I smile and, without touching either glass or decanter, pour two, generous measures of the deliciously sweet wine. One of the glasses lifts from the table top and presents itself before my guest who, with a slightly surprised look on his face, plucks it from the air.

“Finest Czech Crystal, made for King Rudolf II back in the 17th Century. For a delicious port wine of this vintage and calibre, one needs the finest vessel from which to drink it. Wouldn’t you agree?” Randall nods and takes a sip of his wine.

“That is really outstanding.” he says, smacking his lips.

“I should hope so. The wine is over two hundred years old and comes from the slopes of the Duoro, on the finest schist terraces of the river bank.”

“And you actually drink wine Highness? I thought vampires. . .” I cut him off.

“Normally, I have little to no desire for food or drink, being between life and death as I am. But I long ago fell in love with the port’s rich, ruby redness.” I lift my glass to the candle flame. “I love the way it catches the light,” I continue. “It has such presence, such body. It looks almost like. . .” I catch the look of horror beginning to manifest itself upon my guest’s features.

“Calm yourself sir. I say, looks like. You are quite safe. It really is an excellent, vintage port.” I smile as I feel the relief pour from his relaxing body.

Taking a long, leisurely sip of my wine, I open up the pages of the large, heavy book that sits nestled in my lap. I delight in the musty aroma of the leaves as I lovingly turn them.

“If you are quite comfortable my friend, I will begin,” I tell him. He sits back in his chair and I feel his tension ooze out of every pore. Classical, vintage wine of the type we are drinking has a knack for relaxing mind and body.

The Tale Of Peter Plogojowitz

“Our tale begins in the tiny Serbian village of Kisilova in a troubled part of the country that, until lately, had been under the rule of the Ottaman’s. In fact it wasn’t until the Treaty of Passarowitz in 1718 that it finally passed into Austrian hands. However, in 1739, under the Treaty of Belgrade, it would return to the Ottomans. As I said, a very troubled region, but it is with the year 1725 that our story is concerned.

In that year, a man by the name of Peter Plogojowitz died. Nothing exceptional about that I know. Men die every second of every day, but not all return from the grave to feed upon the blood of their relatives and neighbours. Peter died after a brief illness and because he was advanced in years, he was 62 years old, the death was put down to natural causes. In life, he had been quick to anger which led to certain wickedness and, because he had not had the time on his death bed to repent, he could not lie easily in his grave.

It is a fact, my dear Randall, that, like all good men, true vampires are also bred. No doubt in your research, you have learned that there are as many different types of my species as there are stories about them.” My guest nods. I steeple my strong and slender fingers together and regard him closely over the top of them.

“Well, let me tell you my friend, there are but two types of vampires: the ones who are turned by one of my kind and the ones who become vampire through their own wickedness. The scum that are born of their own evil natures, the cockroaches are the filth that give my kind a bad name.” He sees the expression of disgust and anger in my handsome features as I mention these inbred creatures and he seems to cower in his chair.

“Forgive my show of emotion. These loathsome creatures are hardly worthy of it. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Peter had been in the ground ten weeks when he decided it was time to walk. His greed appeared to know no bounds for he literally decimated his neighbours, killing nine people within the course of a single week. Oh, the fear that swept through that village. How I wished I had been present. How sweet that blood would have tasted.” For a moment I gaze off into the distant, lost in my own, private reverie. I can almost taste the honey sweet liquid. I settle for a sip of port.

“The villagers were like headless chickens. They had suffered vampire attacks in the past, as had most of the Eastern European Block, but never a spate as lethal, fast and vicious as this. As I told you before Randall, there is something in fear that flavours the blood and so, usually, a vampire will drain his or her victim over a period of time. The usual length is around three days. Why three? I am at a loss to answer. It’s just well known among my kind that at three days, this flavour is at its peak. After that period, the exquisite piquancy begins to wane.” I wave a dreamy hand as if to emphasise the blood losing its taste.

“What makes this one of the most fascinating cases in history is the documentation that went with it. I myself, found him fascinating, for his display of a power that the gift so rarely bestows upon one of our kind. ‘The Power of the Mist.’ That is to say, that, certain members of my species are endowed with the ability to alter their physical bodies into that of a mist or a phantom. It enables us to enter any premises, with or without, invite. But it is a talent that normally grows and becomes more adept over time. Plogojowitz had it from the off. Extremely rare.”

“ Following a very short malady, all nine victims, on their death beds, repeated the same thing. They all claimed to have been attacked by Plogojowitz. Now here is a curious thing, and one you may not know. Not all vampires draw out blood from their living victims. Some, like dear Peter, feed on the very life essence. No doubt you have found in your extensive research on my species that many surviving victims of vampire attacks, complained of a crushing sensation over the breast or the feeling that their breathing was somehow being impaired.” Randall nods and I can feel the very memories of his research coursing through his mind. I smile, a knowing smile.

“Peter preferred to throttle his victims, fastening his mouth around theirs as they took their final gasp and so, ensnaring their life’s essence. Things really came to a head when shortly after these deaths, Peter’s own widow claimed that he had appeared to her and demanded his opanci.” My guest throws me an enquiring look. “Shoes Randall. He demanded his shoes. There are various… how can I say… drawbacks, when one acquires the gift. Some of us are notorious counters. Others have a penchant for undoing knots. With Peter and others of his kind, it is material things… his shoes.” I take a leisurely sip of my port and relish the slight warmth as it slides down my cold, dead throat.

“Now, the villagers were absolutely beside themselves, but worse was to come. A day or so later, Peter appeared to his son and demanded food from him. When his son refused, Peter beat him to death. So far my dear Randall, you have seen me display speed and guile, even pyro and telekinesis. You have not, however, experienced the monstrous and supernatural strength that my kind is equipped with. Just believe me when I tell you, that, had it not been for the ring found upon one of the severed fingers of his son’s hand, what they found in the aftermath of the attack could not even have passed for having once been human.

“At the time of these attacks, there was, residing in Kisilova, a man by the name of Frombald. He was a Kameralprovisor, a governor of the Imperial Austrian Forces. The villagers, along with their Veliko Gradiste, Parish Priest, demanded that Plogojowitz be exhumed and destroyed. Being a level headed and Christian man, Frombald told them that he would have to get permission from his High Command in Belgrade in order to carry out such a procedure. They in turn told him that, by the time permission came, half the village could well be dead and the infection reach well beyond its boundaries. That being the case, the whole village was prepared to abandon their homes that very day and leave behind a ghost village. Not wanting to be the governor of an empty settlement, Frombald gave into them but stated that the whole sorry episode would have to be documented and authenticated.

“That very night, bearing burning torches, the whole village, together with the priest and Frombald, exhumed the grave of Peter Plogojowitz. What they found filled them with awe and terror. Rather than the rotting corpse they were expecting, they found instead, a preserved body. The old skin had peeled away to reveal a red, more livid looking flesh. The hair, beard and nails also appeared to have grown but the most horrific aspect, as far as these peasants were concerned, was the fresh blood found upon his lips and in his mouth. They were under no illusions whatsoever that they had indeed, found their vampire.”

“Without further recourse, they hammered a huge wooden stake directly through his heart at which was heard a “terrible groan” while copious amounts of fresh blood gushed from the mouth, nostrils and ears. After building a pyre, they burnt Peter’s body and scattered his ashes to the four winds.” I lay the book on my lap and finish my port. The expression on Randall’s face amuses me.

“The Plogojowitz case is one of the best, authenticated histories we have. And, just another year on, in the same region, it would happen all over again. Only this time, I, myself, would play a personal part in it. But come my friend, I feel your weariness. You must rest now and we will continue on the morrow. I shall walk you to your room where you must rest. As for me, the night is young. I may walk abroad in it and see what sport there is.” Randall looks a little alarmed at my comments and slyly, I leave him to his imagination as we rise from our seats and I lead him up to his chambers.