Two Years Ago
She had made peace with death. Somewhere along the blurred edges of time, she'd lost count of the days—and her voice. Now, she lay motionless on the steel table, eyes half-lidded, staring into the dimly lit room. The low hum from the switch box above her pulsed like a lullaby, pulling her between uneasy sleep and cruel awareness.
Even with her eyes closed, there was no peace. This was worse than death.
"She's ready," someone said behind a curtain of shadow. "His Lordship will be here soon to claim her heart."
"No, sir, she's not," came another voice, younger, nervous. "If we push anything else into her system, her heart might stop for good."
"Don't jinx this for us," the elder snapped. "We've tested for months. This is as far as she needs to go. We have other projects, other demands. We need the money. The loan sharks are circling already."
Finally, it was happening. They would take her heart. The thought should have terrified her, but it didn't. It brought relief.
Over the next few days, they starved her of food and fed her wine through a tube. Her stomach burned, her body weakening further. On the sixth day, he came.
The man was old, but his face bore a strange, timeless beauty. Sickly, yes—his pale skin stretched taut over prominent cheekbones, dark circles bruising the flesh beneath his eyes. Yet there was something magnetic about him, something regal and corrupted.
He drifted toward her like a shadow made flesh. "She's beautiful," he murmured, trailing a cold finger down her forearm. With a nail, he made a shallow cut and raised a drop of her blood to his lips. He sighed, eyes fluttering shut.
"And delicious."
"Just as you like her, my lord."
"The ritual begins tonight," he said, already turning away. "Finish your work."
"Sir," the younger voice protested again, "if we do this now, she won't make it to midnight—"
"His Lordship requires a strong vessel," came the sharp reply. "The funding is secure. After tonight, we will never know hunger again."
Money. That was all that drove Dr. Sanders. For Dr. Gibbs, the older of the two, it was legacy. For their mysterious patron—it was survival.
Midnight approached, and panic finally set in. The girl had died. Her body was cold. No pulse. No breath. Dr. Gibbs did everything—adrenaline, defibrillation, desperate whispers to gods he didn't believe in—but nothing worked.
"She's gone," Sanders said hollowly.
The old man was furious. His time was short. He could not afford failure.
"Bring her to the chambers," he growled.
They moved quickly. There was no room for ceremony now—just desperation.
In the chamber, he lifted her lifeless body and sank his fangs into her neck. Even in death, her blood was exquisite. He drank greedily, intoxicated, before catching himself. He laid her down at the edge of a stone pool filled with blood.
He whispered ancient words, incoherent and fast. His nails extended into talons, and he drove them into her chest. His own blood flowed through the channels into her corpse.
Then he stepped into the pool and let them both sink into its crimson depths.
---
Three Months Later
"This body… is exquisite," the woman said, admiring her reflection in the mirror. Her voice carried a new cadence, amused and sensual. "Why didn't I think of taking a woman before? So light. So soft."
She traced her fingers over her curves, grinning. "I would've had a permanent erection if I'd seen this one alive."
"Your Lordship," Rupert said cautiously.
"Lordship?" She chuckled, turning to him. "Rupert, I'm a lady. Look at these—DD cups and hips that could crack a man's spine. I used to prefer the petite ones, but this body… it's a challenge. And I do love a challenge."
"This is remarkable. We never thought—"
"I owe it all to the witch's grimoire. Reread it every century or so. Always offers a solution." She tilted her head, listening to silence. "Has the heart started beating yet?"
"No," Rupert said. "It's been months. But give it time, my lord—my lady."
In those months, Vlad had built an identity for herself. A new name. A new life. All his wealth, his estates, his accounts, his digital records and biometric data—transferred and converted. The world now belonged to her.
Then, one night, he blinked—and saw his own arm.
Thin. Scarred. Pale from famine. It was the body he had barely survived in, centuries ago.
"You've been enjoying yourself," said a voice beside him.
He flinched.
She stood there. The woman. The vessel. Her face was calm, but her eyes were sharp.
"You…" he whispered.
"Hello, Vlad."
"What is this?"
"Don't you remember the witch's manual? The one you stole during the Hundred Years' War?" she smiled. "We're not in the spirit plane. We're in my mind."
"But—you were dead."
"My heart stopped. My brain didn't. Not with all the things your 'dread doctors' pumped into me. Oh—and Jesus, you're old."
"How did this happen?"
"You really thought it was a miracle you started enjoying food more than blood? That your sleep got deeper? That you could feel fear again?"
"I have to kill you."
"You can try," she said, stepping closer. "But here, you're just a man's shadow inside my mind. Think of it like a lucid dream. I know I'm dreaming. I control everything. If I wanted you gone… you'd already be ash."
"What do you want?"
"Stories," she said simply. "Your memories span over a thousand years. Kingdoms fallen. Cities burned. Treasures hoarded. You're like a living encyclopedia of horror—and I want it all. I came from nothing. You came from blood and gold. Seems like a fair trade."
"You have no idea what I'm capable of."
She leaned in, her voice a whisper in his ear. "But I do, Vlad. You made us one. I know every twisted thought you've ever had. I know the traps you'd set. And I know why you were dying in the first place."
She stepped back into the dark, her smile the last thing he saw.
"I'm not going to kill you," she said. "There's no need. You'll return to whatever's left of your old body soon enough. And when you do... I'll come for you."