Kestel

Prologue – 19th Century – Paris, France
The night was cool and crisp and the moon was full. She smiled, almost basking in the light of the street lamps, a poor replacement for the sun she once knew so well. She ran her hands down the front of her gown, admiring the black lace trim and delicate bead work of pearls striking against the rich green of the material. The two-inch straps hugged her forearms and the stiffly boned bodice dipped low into her bosom. It had been a wonderful evening…and Victor was so handsome and commanding in the way her lead her about the dance floor in his silver and midnight blue suit. He didn’t laugh at her misstep during the waltz for he knew how foreign the new dance was to her. He understood the longing she felt for the dances of her native land, the old country…but it had been hundreds of years since she had seen the mountains of Transylvania, and everyone was dead and everything she knew died with them. Then, something akin to a clap of thunder in her brain sounded and she dropped to her knees as an actual clap of thunder sounded in the heavens. She pressed her palms to her temples as the sky began to cry, “Igor…” It was almost as if the mentioning of his name brought him to her, his eyes sunken into his ancient skull, his skin so pale she could see the veins thrumming stretched out over his bones. His clothes where rumpled and bloody and through his open mouth she could see his fangs glistening…fresh blood at the tips. “Igor stop! No! Not again! Stay away from me!” Then she turned and fled down the alleyway, but he was far faster and soon had her flat on her back on the soaking cobblestones, his mouth to her neck. She screamed then all went black.