the edges of the coffin. The dead man pulled himself upright, his eyes sliding open. Wash Jones let out a yelp and scrambled backward, only to trip over a crate and fall on his back. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. He rolled over onto his belly, pulled his arms and legs under him, and tried to get to his feet.
The man was standing in front of him.
Before Wash could move, a hand gripped his shoulder like a bear trap, hauling him to his feet and holding him until he could stand on his own. Wash found himself looking into the man's eyes. They glowed a soft golden color in the dim light.
"I had hoped you were made of sterner stuff," the man said, "but perhaps you will learn in time."
Beneath his fear, Wash felt his pride stir. "I ain't so yellow as all of that. You just startled me is all. Never had no experience with spooks."
"And I suppose you believe you would have acted differently if you had known what I am," the man said. His voice resonated from deep within his chest, making the air around them vibrate.
"Well, sure," Wash said, his own voice small in his ears.
"A show of bravery, perhaps?" The man's tone was mocking. "A valiant attempt to destroy me before I snapped your neck like a twig?"
"Not exactly," Wash said, looking down at his boots.
"I thought not. Such displays of bravado and prowess are best saved for mortal enemies."
"So what should I do to you, then?"
"Kneel," the man said. "Kneel before me and acknowledge that I hold your very life in my hands. Kneel before me that I might show you mercy."
Wash's legs stiffened. Never in his life had he knelt before another man, and he didn't want to start now. He looked into the man's eyes, trying to drum up his usual defiance, but the intelligence and raw power burning in those golden orbs melted his resolve. He felt his legs buckle beneath him. Looking up, he saw a grin spread across the man's handsome face.
"You should consider yourself fortunate, Washington Jones," the resonant voice said. "Few mortals have ever survived so long in my presence."
"Who are you?" Wash asked.
"I am a master of life and death. I hold eternity in my palms. I am a true child of the night, chosen by those before me to carry our dark standard forth into this great, untamed land." His eyes flashed in the shadows. "I am the one that will grant you eternal life and the power to slay your enemies. You will walk the night as one of us, immortal, omnipotent, a dark god upon the face of the earth."
"What should I call you?" Wash asked.
"I am nosferatu, a king of the undead. My name, such as it is, is Fodor Glava."
"Fodor Glava?" Wash tested the name on his tongue. "That's an odd one."
"I make no apologies."
"Shouldn't need to, I say," Wash said, looking at the vampire's polished shoes. His mind was racing. This man, whoever or whatever he was, hadn't killed him yet. Even more, he was offering to make Wash into something he'd never heard of before. It sounded powerful, like he would truly become a god among men. Nobody, not even Cora Oglesby, could stand up to him then. She would be the first of many defeated opponents, many helpless victims swept away by his power.
He looked back up at Glava. "So you're going to make me into one of you?" The vampire nodded. "Why?"
"It is our law," Glava said. "The line of nosferatu must not go extinct, so upon each awakening, we must select a mortal to receive our gift, raising them above mere slaves to join the ranks of the true undead. In that way, we ensure that the world will never see our end."
"But ain't you immortal?" Wash said. "What's this talk about keeping the line going?"
"We are not impervious," Glava said, his face placid. "We are powerful, intelligent, and cannot die of old age or disease, but we may still be killed."
"How's that?" Wash asked. If a vampire could still be killed, maybe he didn't want to waste his time becoming one after all.
"You will learn in time. For now, be content to know that there are those among your kind that actively seek our ruin." A hint of anger crept into the vampire's voice. "They study our weaknesses. They pursue us like hounds. They prepare traps and lie in waiting, eager to