31 Days of Horror

Chloe watched as Robin stood in front of his closet door, contemplating whether or not to search for a costume. "Robin, I'm not sure you need a costume."

"Maybe not, but I'm going to wear one anyway." Robin opened the door. Most of his vampire-related paraphernalia had been hidden away in the closet ever since the night Vlad mind-wiped his parents and his brothers. He started digging through his old things, pulling out vampire-themed decorations of various kinds and placing them in a pile on the floor. After a few minutes of this, someone knocked at the door. Chloe went to answer it as Robin continued working, and she soon returned alongside Jonno, who took one look at the pile of stuff on the floor before looking into the closet. Sure enough, he found Robin inside. "What're you doing in there?"

"Looking for a costume. There's got to be something in here I can wear."  Robin finally emerged from the closet with a familiar black cape, having finally reached the clothes rack in the very back of the closet. "Check this out!"

"Isn't that the cape you always used to wear to school?" Jonno asked.

"Looks like it. I think it's a bit small for you now, though," Chloe said. Robin sighed and hung the cape back up before beginning to put away everything he had pulled out. Unfortunately, there didn't appear to be much in the way of costumes that would still fit him after all those years had passed.

"If you're looking for an outfit to wear to the party, I'm sure Vlad's got plenty of things you could borrow," Jonno said.

"Wait, you're going to the party?" Chloe asked.

"Yeah! It sounded like fun."

"But what if something happens?"

"I'm sure it'll be alright. And besides, I'm a trained slayer. If anything does go wrong, I can handle it."

Ingrid was sitting in the living room, waiting for Piers to return from checking the mail when she heard someone knocking on Garside's front door. She ignored it at first, but went to go answer it when it only grew louder and more incessant. She opened the door to find the Count and Renfield standing just outside. "Dad? What are you doing here?"

"Just thought I'd stop by for a visit," he said. "Can we come in?"

She sighed. "If you must." Both Renfield and the Count stepped inside, closing the door behind them before following Ingrid back to the living room. The Count looked around, seemingly admiring the furniture and decorations. "Ooh, I love what you've done with the place," he said.

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. "I haven't changed anything since you were last here."

He feigned surprise. "Really?"

"I have a feeling you're here because you want something from me."

He said nothing for a few moments, contemplating his next words carefully. "Ingrid, do you remember how I hosted Halloween parties every year back in the old country?"

"Of course I remember. You'd count down the days to October 1st like a kid counting down to Christmas," Ingrid said. "Why?"

"Well, seeing as things have calmed down since last year, I thought I'd start doing them again. Although, I do need a place to host it this year..."

"Let me guess, you want to host it here?" Ingrid sighed.

"Oh, could I?" the Count asked.

"I guess you can," she said. "But you'll be in charge of setting everything up. Piers and I won't do your job for you."

The Count cackled as he turned to Renfield, who was still standing beside him. "You hear that, Renfield? You'll be in charge of all the preparations." Before Renfield could object, the Count shoved a scroll into his hands. "Here's everything that needs to get done."

Renfield unrolled the list, expecting it to be long, but was pleasantly surprised to see it was fairly short. "Decorations, snacks, games, a movie..." He paused for a moment. "Aren't we forgetting something, Master?"

"Hm?"

"We can't have a party without guests!"

"Ah, no need to worry about that. Vlad's already sent out all the invitations."

"He what?" Ingrid exclaimed. "You invited guests here without asking me first?"

The Count shrugged. "Well..."

"Typical," she said. "Who'd he invite, anyway?"

"I wanted to keep the party small this year, so we're only having a few people over. It'll just be his friends and Talitha, provided they can all make it."

"What about me?" she asked. "If you plan on hosting it in my house, I'd better be invited."

"You and Piers are invited too."

Ingrid smiled just as Piers walked into the room carrying a scroll. "Are we having some kind of party?" he asked. "'Cause I just found this invitation in the mailbox."

"We are now," she said, looking at her father.

Piers's face lit up. "I'm in! This should be fun!"

Vlad’s never seen the castle so well-lit. He eyes a thin crack in the far wall that he wouldn’t have noticed in a million years, if not for the two ginormous, rectangular lights attempting to burn out his retinas. 

The boom mic swings like a noose above them, and the camera’s light blinks with a steady pulse. Vlad hates how good the wiring is in the castle. He wishes Ingrid was here—it was always easier to fade into the background with his sister around. The minute she enters a room, every man’s eyes are drawn to her, and he has no doubt that the news team would appreciate her easy confidence more than Vlad’s deer-in-headlights stare and closed-posture.  

The reporter smiles brightly from the edge of an antique armchair. ‘So,’ she says, ‘what’s it like raising a family in a place with so much history?’ 

The Count spreads his arms wide, rings glinting in the artificial light, and grins.  ‘Ah, history, yes! Stokely Castle has stood for centuries, through war, famine, plague… and still it stands. Much like my family.’ 

Vlad’s throat tightens. He can already picture the headline: Local Fruitcake Compares His Family to the Plague. He tries to meet his father’s eye—silently plead with him to dial it back, just this once—but the Count is in his element. His greatest weakness has never been garlic, or sunlight, or even Madga Westenra—it’s attention. Count Dracula, ancient monster and bloodthirsty killer, can’t resist a captive audience.  

‘And you?’ The reporter turns to Vlad. The camera locks on him, and he sinks further into the couch. ‘What’s it like growing up here? Must feel like living in another time.’ 

Vlad swallows. The walls feel closer than they should, the air heavy with the stench of dust and damp stone. It’s harsh and musty. He doesn’t understand people’s fascination with castles, no matter their history. He can’t imagine a more uncomfortable place to live. ‘It’s… it’s normal,’ he stammers. It’s not a lie—this is his normal.  

His father chuckles, gesturing to Vlad as if he’d made a joke. ‘Normal? Oh, my boy, we are anything but normal.’ 

Vlad’s stomach drops. He can’t tell if the spark in the Count’s eyes is mischief or malice. Maybe both.  

The boy shrugs stiffly. ‘It’s, uh... drafty?’  

‘Drafty!’ His father cackles, now, and claps once. The sound echoes throughout the wide, stone lounge room. The cameraman jumps. ‘What an understatement. On winter nights, the chill cuts to the bone. Unless,’ he leans forward with a smirk, voice dropping, ‘you are already cold-blooded.’ 

The reporter laughs politely, but her smile falters. She hadn’t followed the insinuation, and Vlad can be grateful for that, at least.  

‘In this house,’ the Count’s voice raises in volume as he leaps from his seat and circles the room. He just has to make everything into a production, Vlad thinks. ‘The past is never dead. It sleeps lightly…’ he leans towards the camera, ‘and wakes often.’ 

Vlad digs his nails into the arm of the couch so hard he’s afraid the fabric might tear.  

- 

‘…the screams, the blood—ah, forgive me, the battles!’ 

Robin frowns. The longer he watches the programme, the more that even he begins to wonder if the old vampire has finally lost the plot. What was supposed to be a brief interview with the residents of Stokely Castle—part of an ongoing series by a regional news network about Welsh landmarks—is beginning to feel like some avant-garde parody of reality TV. Keeping Up with the Draculas. It was apparent within the first few minutes that nothing the Count said made any sense to the host, but she pushed forward anyway, acting as if the gory tangents and inside jokes (if they can be called that when there are no insiders present) are par for the course in these quick, informative pieces meant to break up the real news.  

The camera turns back to Vlad. 

Vlad, pale and rigid, fumbles through a half-hearted laugh. ‘He means history. Lots of history.’ 

Robin sees the panic in his eyes as Vlad tries to drag his father’s words back into the realm of normal. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence, but the stakes have never been this high before. He isn’t talking to one of his teachers at parent’s night, or a confused mailman, but potentially millions of Welsh viewers, all of whom also now know where the family live.  

The segment drags on. The Count’s behaviour swings like a pendulum between harmless kook and barely-restrained monster—a habit that the man seems perpetually oblivious to. Robin is used to it, to the point that even when the predator does emerge, he’s rarely ever frightened anymore. Unfortunately, he can’t say the same for the rest of Wales. Beside him on the couch, he can feel his own father’s unease.  

The reporter pauses in her questions, smile thin and expression slightly lost. The Count takes this as a cue to change the topic—to the origins of the real human skeletons in the dungeon. Despite how genuinely fascinating he finds the speech to be, Robin still grimaces at the way Vlad seems to try and shrink into the background, eyes downcast.  

The piece finally, mercifully, ends, and Robin’s stomach is in knots. He and Chloe share a look.  

‘Well,’ his mother starts. Even she—a woman who has always been dangerously accepting of their neighbour's eccentricities—seems at a loss for words. ‘That was certainly... interesting, wasn’t it?’  

‘Yes,’ Robin’s father agrees. ‘That’s one word for it.’  

At school the next day, he finds Vlad at his locker. 

‘You didn’t tell me they were coming,’ Robin blurts out.  

Vlad stiffens. ‘Robin—’ 

‘You looked terrified,’ he interrupts. ‘Like if your dad said one more thing, you were going to—what? Run? Throw a tantrum? Try to hypnotise the whole sodding town through a camera lens? It was a live broadcast!’  

Vlad’s face tenses, but not with anger—it’s something closer to grief. ‘It’s not that simple.’ 

Robin rolls his eyes. ‘We could have made it simple, Vlad, if you’d just let me ‘n Chloe help. You looked like you were drowning, and he—’ He gestures wildly, words tumbling over themselves. ‘Your dad looked like he was enjoying it.’  

‘That’s because he was.’  

Vlad shuts his locker with a soft metallic click. He doesn’t meet Robin’s gaze. 

For a moment, neither of them says anything. Then, Vlad continues: ‘you don't get it—sometimes I think he does it on purpose. Like,’ he throws up his hands, ‘he enjoys seeing me on edge. He enjoys that I’m going out of my mind trying to protect us—protect our lives here, in a place where I finally feel like I can be myself—and he could destroy it all with one wrong word.’  

‘You think he’s doing it on purpose?’  

Vlad sighs. ‘Toeing the line is just another way to make himself feel powerful. If he takes it too far and we end up with another angry mob on our hands, well,’ he shrugs and looks down at his shoes, ‘we can always move again.’  

Robin’s heart drops. ‘I’m sorry. You know you can talk to me about anything, yeah? Even if it’s just about your dad being, you know, himself.’   

"Do we really need all these cobwebs?" Jonno asked, trying to separate the individual pieces from the tangled mess of fake cobwebs that Robin had pulled out of a dusty box labeled 'Halloween Decorations'. The Count had decided to come back to Garside to host his annual Halloween party, and naturally all the decorating was left to Renfield. Vlad, Robin, and Jonno offered to help out, which Renfield had very happily taken them up on. He was currently sorting through all the boxes in the attic to find the decorations while the boys started putting them up.

"Yeah," Vlad sighed as he came over to help. "You know how Dad is this time of year."

"Who knew vampires loved Halloween this much," Jonno said.

"Dad was always going on about how important it was to 'celebrate our vampiric heritage' and all that."

"Pretty sure that's not what Halloween's supposed to be celebrating, but whatever," Jonno said. While he and Vlad were untangling the cobwebs, Robin was rifling through another box containing various decorations. He pulled out a skull that looked far too realistic to be store-bought. "This is wicked! Where does your dad get all this stuff?"

"I don't think I wanna know," Jonno said after taking a look at the skull. Robin set it on a bookshelf before returning to the box to see what other decorations were waiting to be discovered within. After about fifteen minutes of work, the tangled clump of cobwebs had finally been separated into individual pieces ready to put up. "I think Renfield said some of these are supposed to hang from the ceiling. Is there a ladder I can borrow?" Jonno asked.

"No need," Vlad said. "Just tell me where you want me to put them." Robin watched in awe as he promptly turned into a bat and took one end of a fake cobweb in his teeth before flying up to the ceiling with it. He hung the cobweb in one corner of the ceiling before flying back down and retrieving another. Jonno began hanging cobwebs on the walls and on furniture as Vlad continued working on the ceiling, with Robin picking out the best spots for them to go. Once every cobweb was hung, Vlad returned to human form and sank down into one of the chairs. "I never get tired of seeing you do that," Robin said, earning himself a small amused laugh from the tired vampire.

"Let's get back to work," Jonno said after taking a minute to rest himself. He opened a box labeled 'Pumpkins', which contained, well, pumpkins. He and Robin began removing the pumpkins from the box and placing them in various locations around the room while Vlad watched from his chair. After a couple more minutes of resting, he rejoined them and started helping out again. Soon enough, the final pumpkin had been set down. The boys looked around the room, surveying their work. "This looks awesome," Robin said. "It just needs one final touch to be perfect."

"What's that?" Jonno asked.

"All we need now is some spooky lighting."

"All sorted," Vlad said. He snapped his fingers and lit a few candles, which cast an eerie glow over the room.

Her patience was rewarded a few minutes later when the door nearest the thrall opened with a creak. A little more light crept in, and with it the hunched forms of two more Nosferatu. Getting a better look at them, Evarcha saw their long, spiralling tongues and winglike ears. Erebina’s lot, then. Butterfly vampires, as some liked to call them. Sure enough, fluttering over the thralls came a swarm of the red insects, wings beating in a silent cacophony. A few settled on Evarcha, and she tried unsuccessfully to shake them off.

“I’m almost disappointed, hunter. I was promised better than this. Waiting for you to get drunk and then sending a few peons to bring you in was terribly simple.” 

The voice coming from the corridor was imperial, curt and patronising. In short, nothing special for a vampire, and especially not an Erebine.

“And I’m disappointed that your ‘peons’ could keep from panting on guard duty. You do know you have to feed them?”

“Then we can all be disappointed.” The vampire said as she walked in. She looked fairly typical for an Erebine, her skin was unnaturally smooth, and in the light seemed almost ebon white. Her hair was elaborate and impractical, complementing a wide dress already soiled by a thin trickle of blood. Most unsettling, however, were her eyes, which were flat and opaque, made from the same material as her skin. They stared hollowly at her. As with most Erebine Vampires, Evarcha’s host didn’t move her face as she talked, her voice simply projecting out from her body.

“I, however, will at least have the solace of being alive at sunrise.” The vampire finished.

“We’ll see.”

A cobweb drifted between the two of them. Evarcha stared up at the impassive face of the vampire before her. Nothing too impressive. Probably would’ve been an easy kill, were it not for her current predicament. She had gotten quite drunk, admittedly. But she hadn’t been hunting for whoever-the-hell this was. 

“Would you believe me if I said this was all a big misunderstanding?”

“Not particularly. And even if it was, we all have our roles to fill. Despite your best efforts, your kinds’ is quite clear.” The vampire stepped closer, her lips parting slightly.

“So that's it? Drink my blood, throw the rest to you lapdogs here and then move onto the next poor sod to pass by your- where are we, precisely?”

“My home. You haven’t been here long, have you? My bloodline has claimed these lands for centuries.”

“As I was trying to say, I was just passing through.”

“How unlucky for you. You seemed quite well equipped, however.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t on a hunt. Just not for you, I’m afraid. By the way, what is your name? If you’re going to tear my throat out you could at least do me the kindness of telling me who will have felled me.”

“Amelyn Castarich VeLeshte Erebina. First of my name.”

“Named for your progenitor. How incestuously charming.”

“I had most of those names before I ascended, thank you.”

“A real self-made monster then. Wonderful.”

Evarcha watched as one of the butterflies drifted past, fluttering into one corner before trapping itself in a cobweb. Evarcha’s eyes widened, then she forced herself to relax.

“Something the matter?”

“Oh, just my life flashing before my eyes.”

The vampire turned her head, mouth widening into the sort of grin that can only be achieved by something not wholly used to using its face.

“It must be very exciting.”

Was that- curiosity? 

“Still sore about losing my quarry, honestly.” If she could keep talking, she might have a chance here.

Amelyn stepped closer, seemingly starting to enjoy herself. Vampires tend to when they think they’re in the upper hand. She leaned in close, heavy perfume almost masking the scent of decay.

“And what, pray tell, was your quarry?”

Evarcha looked back to the corner with the cobweb. The butterfly was gone. Good.

“An astral predator. Its feeding habits made it difficult to track, but I believed its venom could have served as a powerful tool if I’d gotten to it in time.”

“The sort of thing that might have saved you from me?” 

Amelyn was closer now, close enough for Evarcha to see the tiny ridges and scales across her skin that were unsurprisingly reminiscent of the wings of the butterflies that followed her. Her grin had widened well past her lips, revealing a dark redness beneath.

“Perhaps.”

“I doubt it. Your incompetence would be almost endearing. But your vagueness is tiring. What precisely were you hunting?”

Evarcha shot another glance at the corner. The web had definitely expanded.

“It was an arthropod, like an insect. Native to a demi-realm of the Astral Sea, it was a sort of super-predator of mortals. It rarely fed on them directly, instead devouring those who predated mortals themselves. Creatures like you, actually.”

“Ah. What a sad attempt at intimidation. You are starting to bore me, hunter. A pity for you.”

Evarcha looked to the wall one last time. The web now covered most of the corner. The Nosferatu that stood there, once bound by its mistress’s orders, was now gaining a fine layer of web over it as well.

Suddenly, Amelyn grabbed her shoulder, talons extending from her fingertips. 

“I do hope you’ve gotten most of the beer out of your system,” she said, her grin widening as her false face peeled back, “it just ruins your taste otherwise.” 

With a wet tear Amelyn revealed her true face, a fanged maw covered in congealed gore. Her eyes glimmered now as well, pupils dilating as she took in her prey properly. In the corner, the Nosferatu let out a strangled hiss. Its mistress seemed not to notice.

“Wait- I can tell you a little more- This creature- it fed on vampires just after they themselves had- “ 

Evarcha let out a breath as Amelyn’s fangs pierced her throat. You never screamed when a vampire bit you. Your throat tried, then the coagulants and anaesthetics in their venom kicked in. She’d built up a bit of a tolerance, but honestly that just made the bite hurt more.

The Nosferatu who’d accompanied Amelyn looked on hungrily for a moment, then turned its head. Evarcha tried to see where it gazed, being foiled by Amelyn, who tipped the chair over as she lapped at Evarcha’s throat. She let out a grunt as the wood snapped under her. Evarcha tried to wriggle out from the suddenly-slacker ropes, but the vampire’s talons sliced into her shoulder. Evarcha let out a hiss.

“I tried to- warn you- actually. Too late now- thank you.”

The vampire paused.

“Thank you?”

Behind them the Nosferatu hissed and leapt towards the wall. A black blur caught it mid-air and dragged it into the cobweb, which now covered it and the adjoining one. The first thrall had disappeared completely.

“What is this?” Amelyn hissed, blood dripping from her distended maw.

“My- quarry.” Evarcha said, kicking at the distracted vampire as she half slid, half pushed herself out of the wreckage of the chair. She clutched her bleeding throat. “I warned you..”

From the web, a leg extended. Long and many-jointed, as thick as a human head and covered in long barbs and bristles. Another followed. Then another and another, pushing and scrabbling against the wall in a grotesque parody of a-

“Spider.” The vampire breathed.

“Culicivora Astralensis. A second-hand bloodsucker.” Evarcha murmured. 

The hunter, the vampire and the ‘spider’ stood for a moment. Then Amelyn charged the beast, it raised its front legs in readiness, and Evarcha dived for the door.

Amelyn charged into the beast as it hauled itself from the web, dozens of legs tearing its fat abdomen and dripping, many-fanged maw from whatever extraplanar space it waited in and into reality. She grabbed one of its legs and ripped it clean off, but as she did so another clouted her across the gore-covered head. She hissed, glistening wings extending from her back and hips as her clothing and skin unfolded into their true, horrific form.

Evarcha stumbled out of the room, clutching her neck. Nearby she saw her gear lying neatly on a low table. Amelyn had taken the trouble of sorting it. Finding a cauterising rune, she scrabbled for it and spoke the minor incantation. She was no mage, but this sort of thing came with the trade. She pressed the rune to her neck and gritted her teeth as pain flared across it. It wasn’t a good fix, but it would do. 

Behind her, she heard Amelyn shriek in triumph, then horror, then silence. She grabbed her hammer and stumbled back to the room she’d been held in.

It was filled with cobwebs when she arrived, a few butterflies struggling weakly in their silken bonds. In the centre of the room was the body of Amelyn, stained by black ichor and clutched between the fangs of the not-spider that filled half the room. A thousand beady eyes fixed on Evarcha. She gripped her hammer a little tighter. 

Sweet Tooth: Collecting

He didn't know why he needed them.

He didn't bother asking any more. It wasn't a question Matt had time for.

Honestly, he didn't have time for any of this. He had to be at work in only a few hours, and the drive would be long back into town… not to mention the clean-up.

He released a groan at himself. He should have waited, but when they had smiled…

God, he had needed them.

The pliers slipped in his hand, fingers already slick with blood. He hadn't meant to kill them so quickly, but even for the remote cabin, they were too loud. Matt had so carefully kept their hands tied to the metal chair, head strapped in and mouth open wide. Normally they were quite sniffling and whimpering, but quiet enough until he started freeing the bones from their gums.

But not this one.

No, not them with their perfect teeth, so regularly spaced, so wonderfully perfect except for the one. One cap, it was a shame, but Matt had spares. A perfect tooth to fill the gap already waiting to find its home within his spare parts bin. He could make a perfect mouth with it, and nothing would be wasted.

But they had been loud before the freeing of bone from flesh, and it had made such a mess he hadn't been ready for. Blood was still running in rivets from their slashed throat. It would sink into the floor, the concrete of the basement he'd finished off the year before. It would be so much work, and he still had to pull.

The pliers slipped in his hand again, red coating his fingers, and he let out a distressed sound. The blood from the holes wasn't flowing as fast, their heart having just stopped, and it wasn't as satisfying.

"Dammit," he cursed, even as he ripped another molar free from its fleshy prison and into the small metal table to wait to be cleaned.

He dug deeper into the flesh, not bothering to be careful with the soft tissue, only minding the enamel as he tugged them free from the skull that had cared for them. The blonde didn't have time for this, for the blood that had stained his jumper when he'd leaned over them, nor for what was dripping onto the floor, onto his shoes. He couldn't call off again, not after the last short notice call.

Matt looked back, peering out of the small windows into the darkness beyond them.

The oven wouldn't wait for him. The bread wouldn't bake without him today. His eyes looked back to the teeth still remaining within the spread, open mouth. Mocking him with their near perfection and their wish to remain so steadfast within dead flesh.

A growl sounded from deep within him, pliers lifting and shoved into the unseeing blue eyes, twisting them within the sockets. "Fuck!" He cried, driving them deeper into the socket with a rant of curses.

His head hung forward, resting his head on their bloody shoulder, breathing ragged from his outburst and rage. Rage at himself and at the uncooperative beautiful bones.

He pulled his head back at the mess he had added in his loss of control. "Stupid," he whispered at the gore he had spread across their still face, bloody holes dug into their broken skull and pulp of their once blue eyes.

His own eyes glared at where he had buried his pliers into their forehead, he would have to leave it. Leave the precious bones within their rotting prison until he could free them after his shift. He could come back and give them the time they deserved them. He could make them shine and add them to his collection.

Vlad can’t move his hands. This is different to fang cuffs—the thin chains that bind his wrists to the arms of the chair are tight as a second layer of skin. If his circulatory system was still functional, he’d have lost blood flow.  

He doesn’t take his eyes off Robin. There’s slack in the chain wrapped around his friend’s chest. He can see how it moves—slides against the leather of his jacket—with each breath. Robin has tears in his eyes, and it makes Vlad’s heart hurt, but he puts on a brave face. They both do—Vlad's just a better actor.  

The door opens and light floods the dark, mostly empty cupboard they’d been locked in for the past however many minutes. Long enough for Vlad to confirm his telepathy is blocked. Long enough for them to have given up on escaping their restraints. Not long enough for them to have talked about what happened—to have decided on a plan.  

Everything was happening too quickly tonight.  

The meeting with the slayers hadn’t gone well. He didn’t want to bring Robin in the first place, but he’d insisted. He argued that Vlad wasn’t safe, that the slayers wouldn’t hurt him because he was a breather, and that many of them probably couldn’t hurt him due to the recent shift from stakes to more high-tech, UV-based weaponry. It was a weak argument, but he’d caved, because he knew Robin was just worried about him. Plus, he trusted Jonno. Jonno, who’d also wanted Robin to be there, and had claimed it would help his case to show that vampires were capable of maintaining friendships with breathers.  

Some of the slayers Jonno had wrangled in were genuinely interested in his proposition, but most were there out of pure curiosity. They’d never met a vampire who wasn’t hiding their identity, or in the midst of a late-night feeding frenzy. They wanted to see what Vlad was like, and hear what he’d said to convince one of their own to question his training, but they had no intention of signing any treaty. He’d expected this, but he put a kind smile and gave his speech anyway. It couldn't hurt to try, he’d thought.  

He’d been wrong.  

Any persuasive power his words might have had was destroyed the moment he agreed to take questions.  

He didn’t have the Vampire High Council on side (yet—he was working on it!). He didn’t have a location in mind for the proposed blood bank. He had a handful of half-fangs willing to trial his system, but no full-fangs—no one who held any actual sway in vampire society. Yes, his father was the Count Dracula. Yes, his sister was the menace draining all the local livestock and tormenting the local children. No, he hadn’t made any progress in converting either of them to his way of thinking.  

It was when one older, particularly belligerent slayer started ranting about Vlad’s father and the things he’d done—some he had already known about, others he hadn’t—that Jonno had decided to call it a night.  

On the walk home, Robin had tried to cheer him up. He summarised the slayer’s criticisms—which, at first, had not been particularly encouraging—then tried to convert them into a to-do list.  

‘There were people in there who were listening to you, Vlad. That blonde woman? You almost ‘ad her! So, they don’t like your dad? Find a way to get your dad on board, even if ‘e ‘as to pretend! Surely your dad knows someone on the council. Even if you can just get an audience with them, get someone up there to hear you out, it’ll show them how serious you are!’  

They’d slowed almost to a halt, Robin seeming to put all his energy into his wild gesticulations. It warmed Vlad’s still, lifeless chest. Robin hadn’t originally been on board with this ‘No Slay, No Bite’ initiative Vlad was pushing for, but like with everything else, he always ended up supporting him.  

 Everything after that had been a blur of motion, noise, and pain. Robin had been hit with something—he saw that much—but before he’d had the time to react, the angry slayer from the meeting pressed something to the base of his spine.  

It burned.  

It burned in that bright, smoky, familiar way that sunlight now did, and in his last moments of consciousness he was sure he was turning to dust.  

Then, he woke up.  

He woke up, restrained and with Robin across from him, trying not to cry.  

‘Awake, monster?’  

Vlad glares at him, careful not to flash his fangs. It was instinct, now. It wouldn’t help him. ‘What do you want?’  

The man steps closer. He’s bald, smoker’s lines around his mouth and two pink scars on his neck—the kind that form after surviving a half-fang bite. ‘I want to know where to find your father, Count Dracula, the evil blood-sucking parasite.’  

Vlad frowns. Everyone knows where his father lives. It’s the only castle in Stokely—the signal to every slayer who visits that, yes, vampires are here, and no, they aren’t afraid of you. Where else would he be?  

A fist to the cheek. His ears ring. The chair rocks. ‘Answer me, fiend!’  

‘Leave him alone!’ Robin yells.  

The man turns and Robin curls into himself as best he can, chain links pressing into his chest, but his face remains determined. Set jaw, a challenge in his eyes. He fists his hands to mask their shaking.   

‘He’s at the castle,’ Vlad says, ‘obviously.’ He rolls his neck, then opens his mouth a couple of times, until his jaw clicks. Any damage done by the punch is already healed, but the shock remains. His mind still isn’t used to his new, advanced healing, and it can take a few minutes to catch up.  

‘You think we didn’t check there?’ the man spits. ‘You think, while you were giving your pathetic little speech, I didn’t have my boys ransack the place? UV bomb every hallway, overturn every coffin in that Godless crypt?’  

‘What?’  

The man sneers. ‘You lot think you’re so clever. Get all the slayers in one room for a little tea party and make us talk politics while the two most vicious vampires in Stokely roaming free! Thought we wouldn’t catch on?’  

‘There was nothing to catch on to!’ Vlad insists. The skin on his wrists tear, as does the fabric of his slacks, but the chains seem to tighten on their own accord. Even if he were willing to flay his hands to get them free, he wouldn’t be able to. He may as well be a part of the chair. ‘What do you mean my dad wasn’t there?! What about Ingrid and Renfield?!’  

He spits at Vlad’s feet. ‘Like you don’t know.’  

‘I don’t!’ Vlad shakes his head. This can’t be happening.  

A fist in his hair yanks his head back, until he’s staring into the very embodiment of rage.  

‘Where are they?!’ he bellows. Vlad wants to shrink back. He wants to hide. Being held in place while someone yells—a deep voice shaking his eardrums and spittle hitting his cheek—it reminds him of Transylvania. Of being young and scared and wishing he could make his dad proud, if only so he’d leave him alone for a while. It reminds him of back when he still believed his father could hurt him. It makes him feel small.  

He can’t speak. He wouldn’t know the right thing to say anyway, because he doesn’t know where his family is, and if he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t tell a slayer. He just hopes they’re safe.  

‘Answer me!’ He hits Vlad again, but it’s less of a shock this time.  

He lets his head fall to the side and stays silent.  

‘He doesn’t know!’ Robin screeches, his breath fast and the tears falling freely now. ‘Please... he—he doesn’t... we don’t...’  

Vlad shudders. He let himself forget about Robin—about the danger he’d put him in—and the boy was still defending him.  

The slayer approaches Robin with slow, deliberate steps. He circles him.  

‘Leave him alone,’ Vlad demands, trying to project a sense of control that he really doesn’t feel. ‘He’s just a breather, he doesn’t know anything. He isn’t a part of this.’  

He hones his fears into a distress call, and tries to reach his father—or Ingrid—or even Renfield—again. He can’t.  

Behind Robin, the man smirks and slams both hands down onto the boy’s shoulders. Robin winces and tries to yank himself free, but the grip only tightens. The man’s knuckles turn white. Vlad can’t take his eyes off them.  

He wants to bite off each and every one of those fingers, chew up the meat and then grind the bones to dust between his molars.  

‘Interesting,’ the slayer says, almost amused.  

‘What?’ Vlad snaps, but then he hears it. The guttural reverberation. The subtle shift in his pronunciation—the way the sounds moved forward in his palate, instinctively accommodating his fangs.  

‘You called this boy your friend earlier, but is that really the case?’ he shakes Robin gently. Vlad leans forward, lip curling to show off his fangs. The man has already seen them, so there was no reason to pretend. ‘Is he your friend, or just your property?’ He puts one hand on the side of Robin’s jaw and cards the other through his hair. Robin tries in vain to pull himself away, hands wringing the fabric of his shirt—a nervous habit—and mouth scrunched up with disgust. Vlad will bite this man’s fingers off, he swears, and then he’ll peel the skin from his palms and tear the veins out of his wrists like wire from drywall. ‘A breather you’ve laid claim to, like a servant, or a pet?’  

‘Get your filthy hands off of him,’ Vlad growls. It’s not a sound he’s ever made before, but he isn’t surprised by it. He is a vampire, after all, and they’re known for their tempers. For a moment, he’s certain that no human in history has ever been this worthy of facing a vampire’s temper, and Vlad will make sure the man feels every modicum of the pain he yearns to inflict. This isn’t Vlad’s fault, he reasons, and he isn’t losing control. There’s a difference between sadism and revenge.  

Whatever his father had done to this man, hurting Robin would not avenge it. Whatever this man does to Robin—well, there’s nothing Vlad can do that won’t seem like a fair punishment. Robin is innocent. Robin is his friend.  

‘We’re going to play a little game.’ He lets go of Robin and Vlad sags forward, all of the tension gone. ‘This will test how much you actually care, and where your loyalties really lie. You can end the game at any time—all you have to do is tell me where your father is.’  

‘I don’t know where he is!’ Vlad snaps.  

The man stares him down expectantly.  

‘But, fine.’ He rights himself and locks eyes with the slayer. ‘What are the rules of this... game.’  

He doesn’t want to be a part of this sadistic power-play, but he needs to get out of here, and if satisfying this bastard’s curiosity, or his cruelty, or whatever else this ends up being about, will achieve that, then so be it. He’ll do what he must to get them both home safely.  

‘Simple.’ Now between them, the slayer kneels down and retrieves the bag he abandoned shortly after arrival. He slings it over the back of Robin’s chair. Eyes on Vlad, he reaches inside and, with deliberate slowness, withdraws a hammer. He lifts it, like he’s preparing to swing.  

‘Don’t!’ Vlad’s eyes widen. The chains tighten yet again.  

‘What? What’s ‘e doing?’ Robin asks, trying and failing to turn around far enough to see what just happened.  

Smirking again—the smug bastard—he explains. ‘I’m going to hurt one of you.’  

Robin whimpers.  

‘As my opponent, monster, you just have to answer one question: you,’ he mimes bring the hammer down on Robin’s head, ‘or him?’  

Vlad steels himself. He understands, now. If Robin can’t see what he’s being threatened with, he can’t argue one way or the other over what he can handle. If it’s something that will hurt Robin, it’s probably something he, himself, can heal from just fine. It’ll take longer the heal, the more his energy depletes, but it’ll still be nothing compared to what Robin would go through, as a breather. When he said this would test how much Vlad cared about his friend, this is what he meant. Would he take a bit of pain to spare Robin a lot? Would he allow himself to be tortured, if it would spare Robin’s life?  

This wasn’t even a question.  

‘Me,’ Vlad says firmly.  

The slayer nods, steps forward, and lifts the hammer.  

Motion. In front of him, then everywhere.  

Pain. 

Screaming.  

More pain—hot and sharp and prickling across his skull.  

He can’t see.  

Is that the sound of a phone ringing? A kettle? No, it’s too high, and too steady.  

He tries to blink, but only one eyelid moves. The other stays open, he thinks. It twitches. He can’t see. No, wait, now he can. Spots dance around colours too bright for this unlit room.  

There’s this strangest feeling, like sucking up spaghetti. That’s the best his hazy mind can come up with. Sucking in through his eyelid, until the socket’s full, and then he can blink properly.  

His jaw burns, and that burning, morphs into a wicked case of pins-and-needles.  

The screaming changes. He was screaming before, he realises, mouth still open. Now, it’s just Robin.  

It must have been a sight, he thinks distantly, watching Vlad’s eyes slide back into his head. He wants to reassure Robin that it wasn’t as painful as it looked—that the scream and the shaking and the gagging that he’s still doing but hadn’t noticed because it’s not like he really needs to be able to breath in, are all reflexive—but he can’t even get his mouth to close. The healing’s nearly over but the shock remains, like a fog.  

‘Not bad,’ the slayer murmurs, more to himself than the boys. He throws the hammer back into his bag, ignoring how Robin cowers away, eyes squeezed shut as he anticipates a blow.   

The next item out of the satchel, which Vlad is lucid enough to identify but fair from cognitive enough to assign any significance, is a small, vial-like container full of sewing needles.  

He holds them up. Once again, out of Robin’s view.  

‘You or him?’  

Vlad doesn’t understand. He frowns and tries to fight against the lingering concussion. It’s a side-effect of his race’s vanity.  External injuries always healed first, with their power then working inward, ensuring a vampire always looks to have the upper hand. Historically, this hasn’t been a problem, since most slayers resorted to stakes and any injuries sustained outside of the chest area—which holds nothing useful beyond their stakeable heart—were superficial. A punch did next to nothing. A stab to the abdomen was shallow and clean enough that the victim could fight through the pain for the short burst of time it took for the internal damage to be healed. Head-injuries were, and still are, both a different and a rarer beast.  

The longer he stares at the needles, the more confused he becomes.  

‘Three...’  

‘Vlad?’ Robin asks. His voice shakes with urgency. ‘What is it? What does he ‘ave?’  

‘Two...’  

Drool runs down Robin’s chin and drips onto his thighs. His cheeks are dark and splotchy, eyes wide despite swelling. His jaw chatters in time with the jitter of his shoulders. His breath is heavy, and quick, and would be audible even without Vlad’s enhanced hearing.  

‘One...’  

‘Me,’ Vlad says. He doesn’t know what’s happening, or what he’s just agreed to, but something in his core tells him that Robin has already been through enough. Watching Vlad suffer is more than enough.  

- 

Three fingers in. Two needles left in the bottle.  

He keeps his eyes on Robin, making sure, this time, to keep his face hard and his voice in. I’m strong, he tries to communicate with his eyes, and so are you.  

Every needle, forced slowly under his nail and into the nailbed, stung. The way the man would then squeeze his finger—dig the point further into the sensitive skin—to signal that he was about to move on, made it burn.  

He refuses to look down. As long as the needles are still in there, his body can’t heal, and he doesn't want to see what the damage looks like. That’s the best part about healing from the outside in—he never has to see what’s been done.  

He also doesn’t want to imagine his hand as Robins. With his mind cleared, he’s realised how close he came to not answering.  

Robin’s hands are beautiful. This isn’t the first time he’s noticed. His friend has long, elegant pale finger that move with the precision of an artist. He is an artist. This shows through the rotating smudges of charcoal, and ink, and paint; through his immaculately maintained and neatly-painted nails; through his control over his grip strength, which allowed him to pick up a baby cockroach and return it to Renfield's jar without putting a single crack in the newly forming exoskeleton.  His palms show remnants of old callouses, from a childhood interest in climbing trees, and forced mountain hikes, and the choice to scale the castle tower the day they met. Anything that isn’t delicate and refined about them has a story to it, and it’s a story Vlad knows, because he likes to think he knows everything about Robin.  

In the end, the bastard doesn’t take the needles out. He lets them sit, and burn, and sting, and hold open the tears he can feel radiating up to the first knuckle, as he returns to his bag. The vampire smells the next item before he sees it.  

‘Him,’ Vlad says. He didn’t even need to think about it.  

‘What?!’ Robin cries, breathe picking up and pulse thrumming—visible and so very loud. ‘What’s happening?! Vlad!’ He tries, again, to look behind him, but the slayer is careful to stay out of view. This is a test for Robin as much as it is for Vlad—can he really trust a vampire? Does he really believe that Vlad will protect him, at the cost of himself? Robin turns back to Vlad, eyes wide and pleading. ‘What’s ‘e going to do to me?!’  

Vlad shushes him. ‘You’re okay, Robin. Trust me. You trust me, right?’  

He nods.  

‘Good. You’ll be fine, yeah? I’d never hurt you.’  

Robin nods again, closes his eyes and swallows. Braces himself.  

The slayer had planned this out, Vlad realises, with the intent to expose them both as bad friends. Accepting this particular torture would have made no sense, which is why he wasn’t expected to. He was expected to push it onto Robin, and then—ignorant to what the threat even is—Robin would assume that Vlad’s mask had cracked.  

Vlad doesn’t know if the man planned this because he thinks Robin has information, or if he’d just hoped to prove a point, but it doesn’t matter. Robin isn’t going to fight it. He trusts that Vlad would never choose to hurt him.  

When the slayer holds the large garlic clove in front of Robin’s face and, through gritted teeth, orders him to ‘eat’, Robin’s already round eyes widen in understanding. His shoulders sag and he opens his mouth.  

Vlad grimaces as he is forced to listen to his friend gag—watch his throat convulse after swallowing, as he fights to keep the vile, noxious plant down. The tears on Robin’s face glisten in the low light and Vlad shudders. He knows that his visceral reaction to garlic—the roil of his stomach, the way the stench burns his throat, the phantom burn of his skin—is all vampire-specific, but he still can’t help the creep of guilt. He just poisoned Robin. It may not have been with anything that would actually hurt the boy, but it’s still a poison to him, and that mixed with Robin’s miserable reaction will haunt him.  

The slayer runs a shaking hand over his own face, and the look he fixes on Vlad his borderline feral. In two quick strides, he’s back in front of Vlad, hands slamming down on the vampire’s wrists as he leans down, lips quirked up in a snarl.  

‘Last chance, unruly beast. Where. Are. They?’ The wild eyes and the words spoken in a low, barely-restrained growl send a new surge of fear up Vlad’s spine.  

He’s going to die tonight. The thought hits him, so simple and matter-of-factly, that he doesn’t even know how to react. He thinks of his father and Ingrid, hopes—again—that they’re safe, and wonders if they’ll ever even find out what happened to him. He doesn’t know if he wants them to. His father spending the rest of eternity searching for him, gnawing at worry and grief, makes his chest ache, but so does the alternative. All the work he’s done to promote peace—his legacy—destroyed by his father’s rampage. Destroyed by one slayer.  

Then, he remembers Robin, sat in the chair across from him. He can’t see his friend anymore, but it’s impossible to miss those wet, ragged breaths. Whether he’s still recovering from the garlic, or it’s the night overall that’s taking its toll, Vlad can’t be sure, but in either case he has to swallow down a sob. This is his fault. He put Robin in this position, and now Robin is going to see him die. See his get dusted. He wishes for probably the thousandth time that night, that his telepathy worked. Even if he can’t call for help—can't tell anyone where he is—he could at least ask Ingrid to erase Robin’s memory. All of it, or just that night, he doesn’t care. Just so long as Robin wouldn’t have to live with whatever is about to happen.  

‘I don’t know,’ he whispers. The tears fall as he awaits his fate.  

Another trip to the bag. Another item grabbed and held up. Another verdict needed.  

Vlad doesn’t look. Not immediately. Instead, his gaze finds Robin’s, and it echoes his hopelessness in a way that feels like a goodbye.  

He drags his eyes up, expecting a stake, only for them to land on something he doesn’t initially recognise. Images of Mrs Branaugh come to mind. Memories from years ago of her seated on the couch, mending either Ian or Paul’s rugby shirt, mumbling about boys and how reckless they could be.  

The slayer smirks. ‘Last round. You or him?’  

Like with the needles, Vlad can’t even begin to puzzle out what the threat here could be. But, also like with the needles, he’s sure it will hurt. Scratch that. It’s the last round, and he’s just been told that he’s run out of chances. He’s sure it will be agony.  

‘Me.’ He doesn’t know if his answer is even audible, but the man’s smirk mutates into a cruel smile, all the same.  

‘Good. I’d hate to have to do this twice.’  

- 

The chains reduce his thrashing to arched-limbs and muscles spasms. If he could think, he’d be grateful for that. One word knocks around in his head, his only coherent thought: twice. That deranged monster was prepared to do this twice--to do this to Robin, who has nothing to do with any of this, and was only there that night because he’s a good friend. A good friend who trusts Vlad, and who supports Vlad’s goals, even when he doesn’t understand them. He’s only here because Vlad trusts him back, and Jonno—evidently just as idealistic as Vlad—trusted this slayer.  

A dragging burn, a rasp of thread, made even courser by the thick and sticky vampire blood it’s collecting. The thread is pulled tight, until the knot hits Vlad’s bottom lip, and the corner of his mouth presses shut.  

He focuses on the pain. Partly because it would be impossible to block out, but mostly to distract from the sounds. One notch complete, there’s another sharp stinging, followed by the scream of nerves—the jolt of pain coming in tandem with a low pop. The breaking skin, the scrape of thread, the slayer’s uptick in breath, and Robin.  

All sounds he doesn’t want to hear.  

Beyond the clashing chains, panicked breath and dangerously fast pulse, he can’t decipher the noises Robin is making. Pleas, maybe, or cries for help? Is he trying to beg the slayer to stop, voice too hoarse and panicked to get the words right? Or is it something more raw, instinctive, and uncontrollable? He could figure it out if he tried, but he doesn’t want to.  

Knowing wouldn’t make the sound hurt any less.  

The slide of harsh fibre through soft, almost-living tissue is revolting. The pain radiates through his entire face, and he closes his eyes, embracing it. Sharp. Scalding. Throbbing grotesquely as his body responds to the swelling with a mimicry of the pulse he no longer has.  

The slayer ties off the final stitch, and the vampire runs his tongue along the seam. It’s tight, and the holes leak a thick and viscous slime. His blood. It tastes like copper, and dust, and rot.  

The man steps back. Vlad keeps his eyes closed, even as the room falls almost silent.  

Robin’s breath stops, but not the thunder of his heartbeat.  

‘You have until daybreak to think about your choices. If you decide to answer my questions, the stitches will come out and maybe—maybe—you’ll be permitted to leave. If you still refuse, I’ll find you a lovely place to watch the sunrise.’  

Footsteps. A door—open, shut. More almost-silence.  

The seconds bleed on, neither moving, until the moment is broken by a hitch of breath.  

Robin sobs—full-chested howls, broken only by fits of hacking coughs that serve to make his voice rougher. He isn’t holding back, either because he doesn’t have the presence of mind to, or because he physically can’t anymore. It’s the sound of pain, and shock, and grief. It’s inhuman in the way that no human should ever have to feel, and express, so much.  

On the other End

Everyone has one.

A string, a thin and delicate thread, wrapped about their wrist.

Everyone follows it eventually.

Some begin to follow its pull mere moments after their first steps. Some follow it once they find their partner or when they lose one, after they have children, and some manage to resist until their first grey hairs and wrinkles appear.

The timing is always different, random, but still everyone eventually follows.

You can try to fight it, resist, but eventually you will follow it too without ever knowing where it leads.

It becomes this irresistible urge to see, to know what is waiting on the other End.

No one ever expects it to be their End. That only death waits for them on the other side of that thin and delicate thread.

Patiently,

Ever present,

Unavoidable, and tied to every end of thread is

All the preparations for the Count's Halloween party were going smoothly. Renfield had finished the decorating in record time with the help of Vlad, Robin, and Jonno, and had already planned the food and drink he was going to cook that day. When asked, he refused to share any details other than the fact it would be a surprise. Jonno and Piers did not seem particularly enthusiastic about that, given Renfield's track record, but Robin was quite excited to see what he'd come up with. Now the only thing left to do was to plan the games, for which the Count had called everyone into the living room to discuss. "Alright, does anyone have any ideas for games we can all enjoy?" Piers said. "Vampire games are nice and all, but don't forget you've got human guests here too."

"How about apple bobbing?" Jonno suggested. "That's a classic."

"I think that's a great idea," Vlad said. "Just please don't use the fish eyes this time, Dad."

"But it's more fun that way!" the Count protested. He looked around the room, and judging by everyone's expressions, no one else agreed with his sentiment. "Ugh, fine. We'll do it with normal apples."

Renfield quickly wrote down "apple bobbing" onto a sheet of paper he had on hand, pausing briefly before adding "no fish eyes!" in large letters right next to it. "That's one, but we still need more," he said.

"You know, we could always play Murder In The Dark," the Count said. "Sally and George always loved that one."

"What? I'm not playing something called murder in the dark!"Jonno spluttered. 

"Relax, Jonno. There's no actual murder involved," Vlad said.

"What is it, then?" Robin asked, looking far more interested than Jonno or Piers.

"Traditionally, a vampire puts a group of breathers in a dark room and gives them all torches. Then the breathers have to find the vampire before the vampire can sneak up on them," Ingrid explained. "If the breathers find the vampire first, they get to go free."

"And if the vampire catches them?" Jonno asked, although he was fairly confident he knew the answer.

"The breathers get drained."

"How is that supposed to be fun?!" Jonno exclaimed. "For the humans. Not the vampire."

"That's how it's traditionally played, but we don't do it that way," Vlad clarified. "The basic concept's still the same, but when someone gets caught the vampire and the breather switch roles. It's more fun for everyone that way, and there's no biting involved."

"And you get to spray the vampire with a water gun when you catch them," Ingrid added, before glancing toward the Count and smiling. "With hilarious results." He rolled his eyes at her.

"That sounds a bit safer, but I'm still not sure I actually want to play this," Jonno said.

"Want to do a practice round?" Vlad said. "I'll demonstrate how it works."

Robin enthusiastically agreed to it almost immediately, but Jonno and Piers didn't seem so sure. "How is this fair for us?" Piers asked. "Vampires are practically designed to track down prey in dark areas, you know. Our heartbeats and our scents'll give us away." "You're right," Vlad said. "Why don't you all use stasis spray? It'll block your heartbeat, your breathing, and your scent. That should make it a bit fairer."

"Alright, I'll give it a try," Jonno sighed. He retrieved a vial of stasis spray from his bag, which he gave to Robin after applying it on himself. Robin did the same and passed the vial to Piers, who gave it back to Jonno after he finished applying it. "Did it work?" Piers asked.

Vlad nodded. "I can't hear your heartbeat or breathing anymore."

"Perfect!" Robin said. "Let's play!" The three breathers walked over to the game room, with Vlad trailing close behind. He gave each one a torch and a water gun before extinguishing all the candles with a snap of his fingers. Jonno stayed near Piers, while Robin went off on his own. He pointed his torch towards the spot Vlad had been standing in, but he was nowhere to be seen. He walked closer to the pool table, continuing to shine light around the room in his hunt for the vampire.

Meanwhile, Jonno and Piers were sticking close together and trying to check some of the more obvious hiding spots behind furniture while simultaneously listening for the distinctive sound of a vampire flitting. Jonno was thankful for the stasis spray blocking his scent, as he was sure he reeked of fear. Even though he trusted Vlad deeply and knew he was perfectly safe, he couldn't help but be a bit nervous knowing a vampire was actively hunting him down after years of working as a slayer. Suddenly, he felt a cold finger gently tap him on the shoulder. He whipped his head around to see Vlad standing behind him. "Got you," he said, lighting the candles. "Now it's your turn to hunt the rest of us."

"Is that it?" Robin scoffed. "This isn't scary!"

"Oh, it can be a whole lot scarier than that," Vlad laughed. "I just didn't want to give anyone a heart attack."

"Really? How?" Robin asked.

"You'll have to wait until the party to find out," Vlad said. "It'll be a surprise."

"But there still won't be any murder happening, right?" Piers asked.