Bleeker knew he was late, and somewhat nervous; he had never before dealt with this sum of money or class of customer. Hobby said He was some sort of exiled royalty, from Rumania or Romania, something like that. He had expensive tastes, and more than capable to satisfy them; but He was very, very particular and knew His stuff. If Bleeker tried to pass off an inferior grade, like Sugar Skull or Flatline, or tried to cut it, He would immediately know; and not tolerate. Standing in the watery light cast by the dirty bulb, Bleeker squinted into the surrounding darkness, sure, but not sure, he had seen someone when he had initially entered the alley. As Bleeker was studying, so was He studying Bleeker.

He was dressed as most of his caste these days; in a black t shirt smeared with the distorted image of some grotesque rock singer, or a cryptic one word message—usually obscene--emblazoned across the front; deliberately torn jeans, and a pair of Doc Martens that had seen much mileage. The one difference, an open full length leather trench coat, obviously new, obviously expensive, purchased, or stolen, to impress his potential new client. Dark, disheveled hair--intentionally or from lack of attention was unclear—hanging in greasy strings about his swarthy face; a goatee accenting a hard, though smiling, mouth; nose misshapen and listing to one side, giving the impression of having connected with too many fists. Actually, considering his spare build, it was surprising he had so little damage. Above what once must have been quite a handsome nose was probably the answer: Eyes of the brightest, clearest blue, round and innocent, seemingly untouched by the particulars of his livelihood; those eyes could entrance a cop into believing the most outlandish of stories, and charm his way into the pants of the most hardened street whore for a freebie. A clever deception, as the cynical tilt of his black brows and his banty rooster posture belied those baby blue orbs and wide, smiling mouth; he probably would, or already has, killed with little provocation.

Despite the possibility, He had little respect for Bleeker; killer or no, what was also apparent was that Bleeker was a fool who had little knowledge or use for his talents other than to just be happy and survive in his meager existence: Fast food and a one room apartment in a building with leaky plumbing and piss stained hallways; a few beers with ‘the boys’ and an occasional roll in the hay with an accommodating stripper; it was always the same with the rabble. He reeked of the gutter he wallowed in.

A small noise caught Bleeker’s attention. He turned. There was someone standing on the other side of the second dumpster on the left.

"Hey. How’s it goin’. Cold night, huh." No reply, just a slight shifting in the shadows. "You the Count, right? Don’ get many Counts in my ‘hood." Still no response. So much for small talk. "Yeah, well, Hobby said you were in the market for some high class stuff. I think I got wha’ you’re lookin’ for right here…………….."

A hand, so quick as to be unseen, snatched the merchandise from the Pusher. He held up the tiny packet of powder; even in the spare light the contents shimmered. The color was not of the usual variations of brown--from the palest cocoa to the flatest mud--but a soft, pleasing glow of a strange lavender hue; and the texture much finer, not a lump or bump to be felt. Carefully opening the seal, He brought it to his nose, inhaling, breathing in its fragrance as a connoisseur would savor a rare wine’s bouquet; a delicate taste, the barest tip of His little finger to tongue, spreading its slowly revealing essence through His mouth. It was perfect. Just what He had been searching for. He squeezed the tiny packet; too tiny. Even with it cut—His mind expertly raced through the calculations, measurements, weights and ratios—it did not seem to be enough, would not last long. Still………….if tonight He walked away empty handed, tomorrow would be a harder hunt. The thought of another dry day sent a colder than the grave shiver through His being.

Maybe Bleeker was holding out, playing Him for a fool; if he had been able to obtain this quality, surely there was more, there had to be! He tried to read the Pusher’s mind in vain. Bleeker’s thoughts ran too fast, and He was too weak and desperate to interpret the chaotic jumble. A futile effort that only succeeded in draining Him even further. Frustrated, He then relied upon the more primitive method of imperious outrage.

"What trickery is this!"

"What? It’s good stuff, the best, jus’ like ya asked for!"

"Bah! This is not enough to sustain a small child still at his mother’s breast."

"Whadda ya mean? Ya asked for the best an’ I got ya the best. Ya know how many times that can be cut? I could be makin’ three, four times what I’m makin’ offa you."

The sudden silence from the shadows, complete and absolute, made Bleeker hesitate. Losing this sale was not an option. Despite his cocky words he could not resell; his regulars couldn’t afford it in its present form, and he didn’t have the equipment or supplies to make the substantial cut needed; he was a distributor, not a manufacturer. And he definitely did not like dealing with a voice. This mysterious European royalty cloaked in the shadows shit was for movies or comic books; as for real life, as for the here and now, Bleeker wanted to see the man. You know, an actual face—two eyes, a nose and a mouth, teeth and hair optional—something he could play to.

"It’s good shit, real pure, jus’ like ya ordered."

"I don’t pay for shit."

"Look, ya know how hard it was ta even get this! Don’ get much call for this type, not in my ‘hood, anyways. Your the first, but I’m a professional, and wha’ ever the customer wants, I’ll get! And at a fuckin’ fair price too!"

The packet sailed out from the shadows, landing with a barely audible plop at Bleeker’s feet. The figure turned as if to go, and Bleeker started to sweat.

"Wait! Wait, wait, wait!! The customer’s always right, tha’s my motto! Tell ya what, why don’ I cook up a little sample; you try it, and if I’m not right we call it even. No sale, no hard feelins. I even got a rig."

Bleeker was merely a Chipper, having a taste to satisfy every now and then, but had gotten into the habit of carrying a rig for the larger sales, who usually wanted to taste the merchandise before buying; or, mostly, for those who just could not wait. He fumbled about the still unfamiliar coat, nervous sweat dotting his forehead and liming his upper lip; searching through the numerous inner pockets several times before locating the carefully hidden cache; a syringe, spoon, lighter and cotton, wrapped in a frayed cotton scarf of some sort of Indian design. The figure quickly declined with an emphatic shake of their head.

"Hey, it’s clean! Brand new needle, jus’ got it from the clinic. Ya know the one over on Brand tha’ gives clean for dirty……" Bleeker felt rather than saw the hand that roughly shoved away the proffered equipment. With a low hiss, the figure shrank even further back into the shadows. "OK! Tha’s OK, sure, ya wanna use your own…………"

"That will not be necessary. You’re obviously a professional and know you’re, ah, shit. The product and price is acceptable."

"Yeah?" Bleeker looked dubious, unsure if he had actually made the sale. The palest of hands emerged from the dark, and, in a fluid, sweeping gesture, deposited a large roll of cash into Bleeker’s palm. He quickly counted the money, once, twice, three times, his enthusiasm growing with each pass over the crisp bills. "Yeah? Yeah! Oh Yeah!!!! Yeah, I know my shit awright!"

Retrieving the packet from the ground, he wiped it clean on the front of his jeans, then handed it to his new client with what he hoped was as grand a flourish as he, himself had received. The hand that accepted was not the white, smooth marble he had seen pay him; the hand brushing against his was yellowed skin stretched over knotted joints and swollen veins, the nails dry, cracked, and bruised looking. Instinctively, Bleeker drew back, forcing Him to step out of the shadows’ safety. The light was weak, but enough to reveal the truth: A decimated, emaciated old man clutching a small bag of heroin as one clinging to his very life.

Calling on all His reserves He summoned, at great effort, a passing glamour of his once mesmerizing power; His eyes bearing down, attempting to pin Bleeker in their twin flames, to reach through his corporeal reality, down into his miserable soul and squeeze. Unfortunately, what once was so simple a motion--so simple as to be almost an unconscious act, like brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead, adjusting his cravat without aid of a mirror, or successfully leading a less than graceful partner through a crowded dance floor—proved to be too much of a task to be sustained. His stamina was affected, and concentration easily distracted; he only succeeded in causing a momentary panic to arise in the Pusher’s breast; of which he probably attributed to the squeal of a tire, the echo of a footfall, a hungry stray foraging through a dumpster, not the predatory glare of The Infernal Beast. The moment of fear quickly faded into pity; then revulsion; then anger that one so clearly further in the gutter than he, a two bit pusher, should assume such a condescending stance.

"Yeah, well, ya got my number. Call me anytime. Wha’ever ya want."

And with that, Bleeker abruptly ended the transaction and started for the street, his pace casual, unconcerned. At the mouth of the alley he stopped, then slowly turned back, a wide smile splitting his face.

"Hey! Hey!! Ya wanna know what the stuff’s called?" Not waiting for a response, Bleeker answered, irony dripping from every word. "’Walking Dead’. Get it? ‘Walking Dead’!"

The journey home was long and seemingly endless. He had to walk several miles just to find an undamaged pay phone to call for a cab. And walk he did, one foot in front of the other while the Heavens and Earth conspired against Him; the night sky pressing down, the air dense, viscous, like breathing under water; the pavement reaching up, sucking at His weary bones, depressing His already heavy steps. Anger fueled His determination; anger, and, above all, Hunger. Pity! That insignificant little man dared pity Him! If He was not so seriously pressed for time He would have shown Bleeker the glory from whence He had obtained His Diabolic Name; insolence was cheap to the ignorant, and not so affordable when dancing from the end of a pike.

The cab ride was mercifully short and the driver content to leave Him to His silence; the only words exchanged were at the beginning—destination, Downtown Garment District—and the end, upon arrival. Under the harsh florescent glare of the street lamp, as He counted out the required fare, the same ripple of emotions passed over the driver’s face as had Bleeker’s, but He was too spent to rise against the insult; and too grateful to be home. Home to what once was a silk factory and warehouse, the top floor converted into quite comfortable living quarters.

He lingered a moment before entering. Looking up He tried to determine the hour. Dawn was still several hours away, but would there still be enough time? The night was never truly black anymore, too many artificial lights glaring into Her velvet darkness, dimming Her stars, revealing Her secrets. He sighed.

Up the few steps to the front door; triple locked reinforced steel firmly set in a concrete frame, a ponderous thing to open on a good night. A long trek across the vacant first floor to the freight elevator on the other side. The knot of Hunger was now like a red hot angry fist. ‘Soon…..very soon….’ He crooned to the tiny packet safely cradled in the pocket next to His heart. He massaged the quivering muscles in His arms--no strength, His hands slick with cold sweat. He could not manage to close and latch the folding iron gate, so He left it free to shake and rattle during the ascent.

Before the elevator reached the third floor He could hear music and laughter; voices rising and falling against the unearthly droning background of the television and the electronic bleeps and groans from the computer. The now so familiar ordure of His Consorts’ friends assaulted his sensitive nostrils; musky perfume and cigarettes, sweet incense and scented candles, chocolate, bitter coffee and tart red wine. How cruel that His senses should return so keen at this moment. Merely Consorts, not Brides. He no longer wasted time with Brides, His tastes, His hungers had changed; His pleasures now lay amongst the warm, entwined limbs of the human caste, the cold flesh of his own kind did not satisfy. Even the basics of companionship he could not tolerate, human or otherwise, this was why he could not begrudge Sylvie and Pepper theirs. He steeled Himself for the onslaught, it would not do to return in a less than dignified state. He quickly mopped His face and hands with a frayed linen handkerchief, leaving wet, sickly yellow smears across its snowy whiteness.

They were all there. Roseleen, Tannis, Kiernan, Moriarity, and some random piece of madness who called himself Dustin Ashes, all sprawled about the enormous space ironically known as the Living Room, lounging; laughing, watching TV, playing with the computer; drinking endless cups of coffee, and smoking clove cigarettes. At least they were pleasing to the eye in their ruffles and velvet; gold, silver, and jewels adorning every extremity, clinking and flashing in the candle light. Moriarity, the most vocal—and, by far, the most annoying--of the lot, rose from the brocade sofa where he had been languishing like a contented cat.

"Count," he purred, affecting his long, lean body into a graceful, courtly bow.

Oh, how he hated that epitaph, ‘Count’, a low title at best, and one not even in existence in His Mother Land during the height of His family’s reign. He had corrected Moriarity regarding this on many an occasion, only to be buffeted with further derision; especially when He expressed confusion on exactly where this term, ‘Count’ was coming from, and why it was being applied to him. Finally, one of this insufferable little cabal--in fact, it was Moriarity himself--brought over a small rectangular box that contained a film (He was well aware of what a film was, He just wasn’t aware that they were now reduced to such a compact size.) that bore his name—DRACULA. Intrigued, he watched. Enraged, he swore vengeance on the infidels behind such mockery. Not only was he reduced to a mere Count in a ruined castle, with a weak, gibbering lunatic who dines on insects for a cat’s paw, but His portrayer was an ugly, moon faced peasant—could they not see him for what he was? So enthralled they sit, repeating his lines as a holy litany, not noticing his base accent, coarse features, or common Americanized dress; another foul icon, unworthy of the blind adoration, usurping His rightful place as ‘Son of the Devil’. Moriarity’s response was simply to pull a monocle out of his waist coat pocket, regard Him a moment with one magnified impossibly green eye, then laugh; the others, as if one cue, all joining in. Since then, He was always known as ‘The Count’.

Taking a dramatic stance, Moriarity turned to address what he referred to as his Clan.

"Dear Friends, and Lovers past and present; may I have a moment!"

All stopped what they were doing, heads turning, all attention focusing on their self proclaimed leader. Only Dustin remained hunched forward, staring into the computer screen, his now still fingers resting lightly on the keyboard the only indication that he was listening.

"Sadly, our evening has come to an end. The Master of the Manor has arrived, and it is time we depart. Sylvie…Pepper…always a pleasure. We thank you for your hospitality." Moriarity kissed both their hands, palms upwards, one at a time. He smiled, flashing his newly purchased fangs. "Count, you are, indeed, in good hands."

Not only was Moriarity an insufferable fop, he was a poseur playing at being an insufferable fop. Those green eyes and pointed teeth of yours are not real, nor your wavy locks so perfect or deep a black; what you have done is cheap illusion, a human glamour cast with help from an optician, a dentist, and a five dollar bottle of chemicals.

There was much flurry and solicitous conversation in the Clan’s farewells, He decided to wait them out in what served as a bedroom; a space at the far end of the loft, partitioned off with rice paper screens draped in sheer and netting, the entrance a gap strung with sparkling beads and tiny brass bells on satin cords. On the floor were two queen size mattresses pushed together, the deep red coverlet turned back, the linens fresh. It was here that He wearily settled.

From the lower drawer of the night stand He retrieved a small chest; truly ancient, with latch and hinges of hand forged metal, on the lid, a portrait of His Great Great Grand Father atop his prize stallion, bringing down a pack of wolves, the snow below and his sword aloft splashed with blazing scarlet. He caressed the familiar contours. Once, this had rested upon His Mother’s dressing table. And then His first wife’s; His first mortal wife, who sacrificed her own life to the river rather than trust the mercy of the Turks. No woman since, mortal or otherwise, has laid claim to this piece, one of the last vestiges of His birth family.

He set the chest beside him on the bed, his fingers, again, lingering a moment to savor its smooth, brilliantly lacquered surface before finally fitting the ornate key into the lock and lifting the lid. Inside, nestled within the disintegrating velvet folds, was not gold, jewels, stocks, bonds, or currency; inside was something far beyond the crude necessities for existence in this mundane world; inside was Hunger. Now, with great reverence, He removed the contents, laying them with exacting care upon a soft cloth of pristine white spread upon the night stand: A small glass jet, a large surgical steel spoon, slightly discolored and blackened on the bottom, an old fashioned hypodermic with a glass receptacle and several packages of disposable needles; sterilized cotton, a small bottle of spring water, and the final, most vital, item, the packet of lavender powder.

He lit the small burner, adjusting the blue tinged flame to just the right height and brilliance. He already knew without turning that His companions were standing in the door way, watching, waiting. He could smell their pulse, taste their spice. Sylvie and Pepper; so dissimilar in size and shape, identical in face and feature. Or so it seemed, with their same silky black Betty Page bangs and kohl rimmed Theda Bara eyes. Sweet Sylvie, in her flowing sheers and twining ribbons; tall and willowy, as tender a waif that ever graced a Rossetti painting; Delicious Pepper, overflowing the tight constraints of the steel boned corset of which she was so fond; laced impossibly tight, her already considerable bosom emphasized all the more.

His hands were now steady and sure as He concentrated on The Ritual: The measuring, the cutting, the mixing, the testing; and then again, and again, until He believed He had the perfect balance. He then introduced the spoon to the flame. Wisps of silvery smoke and the strange odor of flowers and decaying meat hovered above the boiling contents, the resulting liquid a deep, luminous purple.

The sound of beads and bells parting, then falling back; the whisper of clothing being shed. A pale arm bared, an old cravat of midnight blue wound around, tightened; the smooth musculature flexing, veins darkening, teasing, begging to be impaled. A needle, thin as a whisper, sliding in to flesh; a moment to draw blood, a scarlet cloud to mix with the purple; the cylinder glowing a brilliant fuschia before the plunger slides, sending it on its way; through the veins, through the heart, through the lungs, flooding the brain; tasting, breathing, thinking, feeling Walking Dead.

He reached for Sylvie, caressing her narrow shoulders, her small breasts, barely a handful, but rounded and full, capped by equally petite nipples; down her long, sinewy waist blending into slender hips into long legs, but not too thin, still of a pleasing shape. A reminder of the Aristocracy and their overbred, anemic daughters; blessed with beauty and grace but no stamina nor concept of the rigors of womanhood. But not Sylvie, she was far from cold and bloodless. Her spare frame exuded warmth far belying her size. Athletic in bed, more enthusiasm than skill, twisting and contorting into the most amazing positions with incredible ease, her eagerness a delicious counterpoint to Pepper’s slower, more languid approach to the sensual act.

He turned to Pepper. Sweet, rounded dumpling, all curves and dimples; so like the voluptuous daughters of the common man. Oh how he had had loved those peasant girls; and of them he could have His choice, no Father in his right mind would dare deny his Sovereign anything, not even his own wife or daughter. In fact, he should have been profusely thanked for saving their women from a life of hard, life shortening labor, aging far beyond their years in the shortest time; serving their coarse men in the fields and the bedroom, to eventually die in childbirth while laboring to expel another of their kind from an already overworked womb. And that rich meaty smell that seemed to float about them like a miasma; the costliest French perfume could never compare to the seduction of a ripe maid during the first year of their true womanhood, when the first blood of their moon storm started to flow.

Why the low born seemed so blessed with such full beauty, however so short a time, and the aristocracy such forced, calculated beauty, He always puzzled. But this was why He invariable chose his Brides the rabble; ripe in life, all the more so in Undeath, while those of his own class, sadly, got lost in the translation. The richer the breeding, the weaker the blood; fragile and wraithlike in life, all the more frail and insubstantial in Living Death, with eyes more like hungry rabbits than the predator they now were.

He pressed Pepper’s wrist to his fevered lips; her pulse a seductive whisper inviting, her rich, poison laced blood the promise fulfilled. He trailed His tongue up and down her inner arm, savoring the purple heat that burned icy cold within her veins. He was gentle, His fangs slowly sliding in, following the same path as the needle, blessed sanctuary flooding His mouth. Another needle prepared, Sylvie offering her arm; His teeth finding purchase in the moist juncture of loins to thigh. The pain easing, the fist worrying His bowels opening, caressing, beckoning for Him to follow; to float down the sacred waters of the River Lethe, blood and heroin lying sweet and heavy in the back of His throat.

In His liquid dreams all was as it should be; as it was.

He was not weak, unable to function beyond procuring for and the feeding of his Hunger; NEW hunger, beyond the pale of the old; Hunger that grows with each day passing. He was not the ruined junkie with the nervous tremors and rheumy eyes Bleeker and the cab driver had seen. He was not ‘The Count’, an old man with delusions of past grandeur; an object of derision for playacting children,

He was again the powerful warrior crushing cities, towns, countries beneath his bootheel, leaving only ashes and ruin in his wake. The elegant Noble, clothed in the latest and most costly rainments, welcomed in the most prestigious Courts; as smooth and practiced in the parlour and on the dance floor as on the blood slickened battle field. Vlad, the Prince, who drove all enemies, both active and potential, from His soil; expanding His borders into one of the most prominent and influential empires in European history. He was Dracula, The Son of the Devil, omnipotent, absolute, irresistible; delivering the promise their God had never fulfilled--Life after Death.

And He whispers into the dark He once ruled a Holy Litany.

"I am Vlad."

"I am Dracula."

"I am Walking Dead."