But he was a servant. An orphan. A homeless man who had scrubbed pots and risen through the ranks of the local lord in an attempt to secure himself some manner of safety, of security, of family.
The lord’s daughter had taken a shining to him. He did clean up well, she said. She had brought him to the garden one night, pulling him along by the hand, and had begged him to touch her. She had spread her legs, rolled up her skirt, and displayed herself to him like a fruit on a branch, begging to be tasted.
And so, he had.
And the lord had found out about it when she was with child.
She was to be taken to a local doctor to “dispose of the infection.” When he had screamed and raged over the destruction of a life that belonged to him, as well, the lord had seen him beaten low and driven to the middle of nowhere and left for dead.
To rot.
To ruin.
Perhaps he should die like this. In the gutters and the dirt where he was born.
It was dark when he heard the wolf howl in the distance. The moon was high in the sky when teeth tore into his throat. Not those of an animal—but those of a man. Cruel and harsh. He thought he had desired death to greet him. He thought he would welcome it with open arms. But standing there at the precipice, he fought back. He wanted to live. He wanted to fight for each new breath as the one that followed might be denied to him.
His fervor caught the monster’s attention.
A bloody wrist was proffered to him, and he drank from it greedily.
It tasted like home.
Ash. That was all he saw. Ash. Not the room, not the note upon the dresser, not the others standing about him weeping for their loss.
Only ash.
His Master was gone. The sun still streamed from the curtains, pooling on the carpet, painting it in shades of blue and black. The fire that had consumed his Master had done great damage to the thick and expensive covering.
Numbly, he walked to the desk and picked up the note that lay upon it. He did not read every word. He did not need to. He knew what it said.
It expressed sorrow, reluctance, but a need to go. A lack of desire to keep living. It was what notes like these all said. It was empty of real meaning and real regret.
Zadok crumpled the note and left to pack his things. His Master was dead. His family was once more gone. But there was another, an eternal one, whispered in lore and legends and spoken of even amongst their kind like the King of All who Died. A dangerous and powerful thing who had been denied true death long ago.
He would find this King of Vampires.
And he would kneel at his feet.
He would find a home that could not leave him. Someday. Somehow.
Maxine snapped out of the visions with a gasp and sat up. She was shaking like a leaf. Those visions and more crashed through her mind. A life of loneliness, of fleeting pleasure both taken and given, and a life of seeking a place to belong.
Her heart was pounding in her ears, and it took her a long time to steady her breathing. It was only then that she looked to Zadok, wondering if she would find him empty-eyed upon the floor, staring up at the ceiling only never to see it again.
But he was not a shell of a creature. He was crying. Silently, tears of crimson ran down his cheeks. Vampires could cry, it seemed…and they did so in blood. It was only fitting. She slid down onto the floor beside him and, reaching up her bare hands, slowly brushed the tears from his cheeks. She did not care for how they might stain. She reached out and gently gathered him into her arms. Wordlessly, she pulled him into an embrace.
He sobbed, all tension fleeing him as he chose to lie in her lap. She stroked his hair slowly, shushing him. Trying to do what she could to soothe his pain. Pain she now understood firsthand.
If she killed Dracula, he would be alone again.
“I am so sorry, Zadok…” she whispered. “My platitudes are vapid and bland, I know. There is little to be said for things that have been suffered. There is little condolence to be said to those whose lives