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Draga	By : sisterstyx Category: S through Z > Van Helsing Views: 1921 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Van Helsing, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
***I just realized I posted chapter 3 rather than 2! They are now in order and combined into one chapter.***

The train station was packed. He hated to use public transportation and wished the Vatican would simply let him hire a driver. He missed the days of a team of horses and simple carriage when he could ride all day and have the horses to keep him company at night while they grazed and he slept by a small fire along the road. But the days of mass transit were at hand and, with the whispers of war on everyone's lips, he knew traveling by train was far less suspicious and much faster.

At least he was traveling alone again. Or, so he told himself. Carl had retired from the hunting business years ago, his age catching up with him. He was now a plump man in his mid fifties who spent most of, but not all, his time in the Church's catacombs, testing new equipment and translating ancient tomes. He was sad to be without Carl, but he was able to move much faster and with more stealth on his own. He envied Carl the sedate life and comforts that came with age.

He, however, would never know that pleasure.

He walked across the gleaming marble floor, the click of his warn boots and the gentle flapping of his long coat lost in the busy noises of the station. He was being deployed to Paris, again; a city he hadn't seen in over two and a half decades. He had liked Paris well enough the first time and was eager to see the changes time had made upon the city he had stalked so successfully. Reports had sprung up of young men and women suffering blood loss due to unknown causes. No one had died, yet, but with little supernatural action occurring across the war-charged Europe, his skills had no better place to be used. Besides, the Order feared they had another mad scientist on their hands and he had not been as successful as they liked with the last one. He had promised not to get his face on any wanted posters this time and they had sent him off with a new gun and cash in his pocket.

The Order was fairly certain another war was looming and, though it was beyond their concern, it meant travel through Europe was becoming steadily more difficult. Soon there may be no commercial transit at all, despite the increasing number of train tracts crisscrossing the continent; he could not afford to miss his train. He wondered the time and checked the large clock looming over the station, suddenly finding himself entangled in the luggage of a young woman.

"Oh, scusi!" He looked down in time to see the lady in question trip and begin to fall. He instinctively reached out and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her to him to prevent the tumble.

"Mie scusare," he apologized. She put her hands between them, on his chest, to regain her balance and stood before him, finally meeting his eye.

She was stunning. She looked to be in her mid-twenties; her clear eyes shone with warmth and playfulness and her hat tipped at an alluring angle. She wore simple but elegant traveling clothes and carried a rather expensive-looking handbag that matched the large trunk he had tripped over. She smiled up at him and he found himself at a loss.

"Grazie, for a moment there I thought I was about to become intimately acquainted with the floor!" She pulled her hands away and waited for his response. When he made none, she leaned forwards slightly and whispered conspiratorially, "I think you can let go now."

He realized how tightly he was holding her—the length of her body was pressed against his and he could feel her pulse quicken in her chest—so he hurriedly withdrew his hands from their rather inappropriate location about her waist and he looked at the floor, muttering another apology.

Was he blushing?

"I wasn't looking where I was going. May I help you with your luggage?" he offered, hoping his gallantry and swoon-inducing smile would make up for his gracelessness.

"That would be lovely, thank you." He picked up one end of the Luis Vuitton trunk and motioned for her to lead the way. She gave him a smile over her shoulder and, to his surprise, began to head towards the Rome-Express leaving for Paris.

"Are you from Paris?" He asked with a slightly raised voice, attempting to keep up with her quick feet in the crowd.

"Is my Italian that bad?" She asked in jest, making her way to the front of the train, towards the First Class. "I would hope, after seven years, I would almost sound like a native." She stopped by her car and he handed her trunk over to an attendant to load into the luggage car.

His hands now free and the crowd less noisy, he was able to give her his charming smirk, "Not at all, it is just that you don't look Italian. No Roman nose," he whispered as she had previously. This made her laugh outright and he immediately wanted to hear the sound again. "You're headed to Paris, so I made an educated guess."

"Bien fait, Monsieur l'Inspecteur." She said, flawlessly switching from Italian to French. An invitation to spar words with her, if ever he'd heard one. Naturally, he switched to French as well, although his conjugation was a little rusty.

"I'm taking the same train, may I see you to your box, Madame?" He held out his arm for her and she took it.

"Merci, Monsieur, and it is mademoiselle." He helped her step up onto the train and followed her into the car. He followed her until she came upon her box and opened the door.

"Well then, mademoiselle, I have seen you safely to your seat, with no further incident, and will bid you good day." He tipped his old brown hat to her and turned to walk down the train to his own compartment.

"Wait, why don't you join me if you are taking the same train? I would enjoy the company." He faced her and could not help but notice her shapely silhouette in the light coming in through the carriage window. She was too tempting to resist, but he knew he should.

"I'm afraid I'm hardly an ideal conversationalist." He admitted. He had planned to simply pull his hat down over his face and sleep the ride away, he never was one much for chit-chat.

"Well you're doing fine so far. It's a long ride and I have the compartment to myself." She paused and he contemplated. "Besides, I believe you still owe me a favor for that close encounter," she smirked, crossing her arms, meeting his gaze from under the broad rim of his hat.

"If you insist," he acquiesced. She smiled at him and motioned for him to take one of the empty seats while she put down her purse and took off her light jacket and hat. He refrained from taking off his long coat since it concealed numerous weapons and the last thing he wanted to do was frighten this woman. Well, that or get arrested for illegal firearms on the train.

As they settled, the last "All aboard!" was called and an older porter knocked on the compartment door.

"Tickets," he asked gently. She pulled hers out and he nodded politely. When he handed his over, the white-haired man frowned.

"I'm sorry Sir, but this is First Class, I must ask you to—"

"He is my guest, Monsieur, and as he already has a ticket for this train, I see no reason why he cannot share my compartment." She said sweetly but authoritatively. He looked at her standing next to him and saw the calm resolve on her face. She obviously could handle herself and was not one of those shy women who giggled incessantly or fainted at the slightest provocation.

The porter turned his furrowed brow to her, then back at him, before sighing in relent. "As you wish, Comtesse. Let me know if I can get you anything." He bowed his head and left the box and she closed the door behind him, giving him a warm "Grazie," as he went.

As she made to move back to her seat by the window, facing him, he could not help but give her an admiring half-grin. ""Comtesse"? I thought you said to call you mademoiselle earlier."

She gave him a reproaching look but then broke into a grin. "And you, Monsieur, have yet to provide me with anything to call you by."

"Indeed. My name is Abraham Van Helsing, at your service." He swept off his hat and bowed to her from his seat.

"It is an absolute pleasure, Monsieur Van Helsing. I'm grateful for your service and companionship." She dipped her head and picked up the fabric of her skirt in a mock-curtsy. "You may call me Ilona."

The first few hours passed in companionable silence and snippets of idle conversation. She asked what he did for a living and he was prepared with his cover story. He had been given paperwork stating he was a member of the Vatican Police and, in a way, this was true. Such papers gave him almost free-reign to carry weapons and cross boarders, and would gain him entry and protection from any Catholic institution in the world, a handy tool when chasing the un-Godly. His story was that he was sent on a special assignment to investigate a confidential case. No one would care too much about this vague explanation and poorly constructed fake identity, but that was the idea: to not draw attention to ones self. He felt a stab in his chest from lying so smoothly to the entrancing young woman but the story and name-change had become necessary when his notoriety would sound alarms throughout Paris. It had only been through is own stubbornness that he'd been able to retain "Van Helsing", the name he preferred and the one piece of his identity that had remained constant since he could remember. Besides, the fact his appearance hadn't changed meant he could pass as his own son; a trick he had used before.

She had explained to him that she grew up in the Loire Valley, though her family was originally from Eastern Europe, and had gone to Rome to finish her education and study art. She had spent some time touring Italy as a tourist, artist, and would-be historian and she was over-eager to return home; the impending war a mere coincidence in timing. When he asked what kind of art she had been studying she happily rummaged through her bag and pulled out a sketchpad.

"I claim no great talent, but I cannot help but try to capture the beauty I see." She sat next to him and allowed him to flip through her sketches. They were meticulous and life-like, despite some being monochromatic and others being soft watercolors. She had images mainly of historic Roman buildings or picturesque Italian landscapes; each capturing a simple moment of a timeless place. They conveyed beauty and gentleness and contentment that he wished he could feel more of. He spent so much time running after evil in the dark and dank alleys of forgotten streets that he rarely paused to enjoy the sights of the afternoon sun playing through tree leaves or of the magnificent architecture of the Coliseum as it towered over the streets of Rome.

"These are quite good," his complement was honest and not just intended to flatter. "You do these for fun?" It had been such a long time since he'd done anything simply for the pleasure of it. For a brief moment his mind flashed to the last time he'd known contentment; in the arms of the dark haired, firey woman he'd killed. But he was pulled from his dark thoughts.

"Well, when I was little, my brother, gave me drawing materials and I went about drawing everything I could. He has a condition that prevents him from traveling much, so I took to sketching the people and places I'd go, so I could show them to him. It made it feel as though we were there together."

He looked over and saw her eyes staring at the sketch in her hand, but seeing a different time and place altogether. Her other hand absently played with the string of pearls around her neck, twisting the strand around one of her fingers. The smile on her lips told him immediately that she cared deeply about her brother.

"Have you not seen him since you've been in Italy?" He asked gently.

"No," she flashed him a forced smile to cover up the pain he could read in her eyes. "We write each other almost every day and he had a telephone installed in the house so I've been able to speak with him a few times. But I've been gone a long time…" she didn't finish the thought but sighed and smiled at him again, this time a genuine one that warmed his bitter heart. "I can't wait to be home and see him. He tried to reassure me in his letters that all is well, but I'm the only family he has and I fear he's felt awfully alone since I've been gone." Her voice fell and he could hear the guilt in her words. Without thinking, he put his worn hand on her thigh in an attempt to comfort her.

"I'm sure he was just anxious about your safety so far from home. Though I know, were I your brother, I would find it almost impossible to let you go so far for so long." She turned to him with wide eyes and he was suddenly very aware of how close their bodies were. The length of her leg was against his, his hair threatening to brush against her shoulder with every move he made, his hand a bit too-high up on her thigh. He could smell her, he realized; lavender and vanilla and something he couldn't name. His eyes flicked down to her perfect lips before he could stop them and the sweet smile slid from her face as she met his gaze.

But then the carriage shifted on an imperfection in the track and the moment was lost as their bodies rocked with the motion. She cleared her throat and gathered up her papers from their laps, crossing to put them back in her bag on the other side of the compartment.

"That is why I'm so eager to return home. It took all my courage to leave in the first place; all my 'sense of adventure'!" He was slowly becoming addicted to her smile and the way her eyes crinkled. "But every night when I'd climb into bed I'd miss him."
His brow furrowed and she flashed a look of panic and caught herself quickly. "I mean, I'd know that he was hundreds of miles away and just as alone as I was and I—" He smiled at her, showing he understood and she took a steadying breath. He was secretly glad to see she could get flustered; she seemed almost as formidable as…

They fell into a new silence and both looked to watch the scenery flash past the window, the rolling Italian landscape slowly giving way to the more sever shapes of the encroaching Alps.

"Damn it!" He shouted, throwing the test tube in his hand across the room to shatter against the stone wall. The blood it contained left a vivid red patch against the white limestone. He rose from his stool and began to pace the room, his fists balled in frustration, attempting to keep his rage under control.

She was due back in just a few days.

His mind raced with conflicting emotions. He had been looking forward to Ilona's return for seven years and yet he had dreaded it for almost as long. He had counted the days of their separation with such all-encompassing grief and yet he now wished she would stay away just a bit longer, just until he had had his break through. Just until he was no longer himself.

He looked to the clock on the wall and decided to finish for the night. He was so close to the answer, and yet it eluded him, ripping at his patience and resolve. He had hoped, he had dreamed, that if he had worked long and hard enough that surely there was a way, surely he could find that special combination of matter and energy that would resolve everything.

He let out a calming breath and made his way up the hidden stairs to his study. This night, there were no letters written in her familiar hand to brighten the wee hours of the morning. Rather, she was currently en route and had no more need for their regular correspondence. No, in just a few agonizing, fleeting days she would be here herself, a grown woman of 25, his raison d'être. And he would be the same.

He had converted the secret chamber where his coffin resided into a laboratory. With the help of a few locals and technicians, who were either compelled or paid to forget its location, he had even outfitted it with electricity and a gas line, to light even the darkest corner and provide power to his various appliances. Ahh, if he had only had the ability to wield the power of a lightening storm the last time he had tried an experiment, things may have turned out differently. But that was a long time ago and a far cry from France. And he had long ago come to terms with his failures on that endeavor and, given his current objectives, was rather relieved that he had not succeeded, though it broke his heart at the time.

But this time was different. He had learned a great deal from Heir Doctor about blurring the lines between life and death and this knowledge, combined with the current advances in medicine and the clean, steady stream of electricity running throughout the ancient chateau, made him quite formidable.

And yet he was, so far, unsuccessful.

Perhaps it couldn't be done. Perhaps the deal that had been struck was more powerful than human ingenuity and invention, more binding than his own determination. Perhaps he would never find relief from the monotony of infinite nights. Perhaps he was nothing but a cold, cursed shell that resembled a man but was so much less.

And yet, he had reasoned, if that were true, how could he have such feelings? Fears of loss and loneliness, hopes of unforeseeable futures, instincts to protect and soothe and comfort. Were these not the emotions of man? Was he truly a soulless beast that could kill without regret and see no beauty but in pain and destruction?

No. He had seen beauty in the smile of an innocent babe, had felt joy and worry and pride. Had held her when she cried and had given her everything and more than she could possibly have wanted; all without thought of himself or some ulterior motive. In these years that she had been gone, hadn't he felt the tug of his heart towards her side, felt the need to protect and comfort her, felt her missing presence in the house? He knew he had.

The emotions she evoked in him were so much more than the lust and hatred and entitlement that his brides, or the Valerians, or his undead children had ever instilled in him. She made him so much more than he had been.

And he wanted to be so much more for her.

And so, armed with vials of blood, the most cutting-edge lab equipment, and the life-giving spark of electricity, he had set sights on a seemingly impossible task. He would find a way to be with her as she deserved, find a way to rid himself of the darkness, of the loneliness, of the self-loathing that had been his only consistent companions these past centuries.

He would find a way to become human.

"Well, Monsieur, I believe we must part." They stood in the bright and bustling terminal d'Orsay, the great clock standing over them in a reflection of their meeting. Their train had finally arrived in Paris where she would wait for her train to Nantes in the morning and he had an investigation to begin. He stood, hands in his pockets, mind furiously trying to think of what to say. During their brief interlude, he had become hopelessly enthralled by her beauty, strength, and wit. He was desperate to find some reason to remain in her presence for another hour. "How long will you be in Paris?" She asked, noticing his lack of speech.

"I'm not sure," he said, trying to use his most charming smile to cover his embarrassment, "however long my business lasts. It could be weeks, it could be months."

"Well, then perhaps I will see you before you leave."

"Indeed, I would enjoy that." He said, making her blush slightly.

"Where can you be reached?" She said, hiding a small giggle at his expense. He was so inexperienced in this. His eyes opened wide before he pulled out his paperwork and gave her the address of his hotel. "I will be sure to write you if I come to town."

"Yes, well…" he couldn't think of what to say. He finally decided to go with a classic tip of the hat "It was a pleasure, Comtesse."

She curtsied slightly and gave him a genuine smile. "Ilona, please. And the pleasure was all mine." She picked up the edge of her trunk and, before he could draw three breaths, she was lost in the crowd. As he turned to leave the terminal, he said a silent prayer that it would not be the last time he saw her face.

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What an interesting man, she thought. She sat in the back seat of the car, her driver taking her to the hotel where she would spend the night before heading home.

Home.

Her heart was heavy with the ache that would soon be soothed. For so many years she had been a person torn in half—her body was in Italy, but her thoughts were in France. Every day she had to convince herself that it was worth it, worth feeling the hole in her chest, worth returning to an empty townhouse, worth eating dinner alone. The letters and the few phone calls had been enough to stop her from booking a seat on the earliest train, but only just.

She had made friends; she had gotten to know the cook and housekeeper that worked in her home; she'd even gone out for a café or dinner with the eligible, elite young men of Rome who had sought out the mysterious French heiress. She had flirted, she had laughed at their jokes, she had graced their arms at all the fashionable parties, and she had turned them all down in the end.

They didn't understand that she had no plans of finding a husband in Italy, no matter how attractive and charming they may be. She had a completely different reason for her sojourn; and it wasn't to study art as she had originally claimed.

She was pulled from her thoughts as the car came to a stop outside the hotel where she had always stayed when she'd visited Paris with Vlad. She smiled at the memories. The president of the hotel welcomed her and asked after her trip and she humored him as she had known him since she was a little girl.

"How long will you be staying with us, Comtesse?"

"Just the one night, Henri. I leave for Nantes in the morning."

"We have missed you. Le Comte has not come to visit us these past few years either. I hope he has been well."

As do I. "I'm sure he's just been busy at home. You know how his condition makes coming to town difficult." They stood outside her usual suite and he bowed and excused himself, wishing her a safe journey.

She entered the room and sighed. Had she slept any better on the train, she was sure she would have been too excited to even lay down. However, she had only succeeded in nodding off for a few hours, the watchful—but not alarming—gaze of her new-found traveling companion had made her self conscious. It was not that she feared him. Indeed, she may play the part of the privileged damsel well, but she could fend for herself. Rather it was that she felt scrutinized, as though he were trying to solve her like a puzzle. It was not the first time she had caught a man off guard, but he was certainly the first to show no intimidation to her quick wit and sharp tongue.

She had Vlad to thank for those. She had him to thank for a lot of things, for everything. She knew why he showed her with gifts, why he spoiled her, why he was both parent and friend and teacher. He was an isolated man with no other family, no other ties to the world except a few hired staff and distant business ventures. She carried the burden of being his sun with a light heart and nervous stomach, for she was happy to do it, but terrified of failing him.

Without conscious thought, her hand went to the necklace around her throat, twisting the strand around her finer while her mind was distracted.

What was worse, however, was that he had no idea she needed him just as much as he needed her.

He was all she had ever known before leaving for Italy. He had spoiled her, reprimanded her, inspired her and taught her everything he could; molding her into the woman she was. She had no one else either. The village children were scolded by their parents for playing with her growing up, since she was a noble and they were just townsfolk. She had always been like a fine china doll—everyone looked at her with reverence and longing, yet feared breaking or soiling her if they got too close. Her friends in Italy had only been superficial; attending teas and lunchons, gossiping about the women who were absent, sizing up the women who were present. The men had wanted her for her body and money, and a few for her brains and love of beauty; but they still considered her a thing untouchable, as though she were set upon a column or behind glass where they could see but never touch. Even Ms Van Helsing had given her the look as though she was something beyond his grasp, but at least his compliments had all been heartfelt or in amiable jest.

Yes, he had been entranced by her quick smile and mesmerizing eyes, she had noticed. But he was a man and could hardly be blamed for noticing a beautiful woman, she reasoned. But he had met her eye and tried to see what made her tick. Had she not been raised by the most enigmatic man she'd ever met, she was sure Van Helsing would have picked her brain in mere moments and found no other interest in her. However, her guardian's mysteriousness had rubbed off on her and she could not help but be two steps ahead in every conversation.

After hanging up the dress she would wear in the morning, she rang the bell for service and a brief moment later a bell boy was knocking on her door. She ordered a light supper and then lay down, wanting to just rest her head for a time while her dinner was being prepared. She was going home for the first time in seven years. She wondered if he'd changed at all and hoped he approved of the changes in her. To that end, she shifted on the bed to get more comfortable—she wanted all the beauty sleep she could get before the long day ahead.

He was startled by the hurried knock on his door, an impressive reaction from a man who was used to being the one doing the scaring. He attempted to sound his usual, disinterested self in replying, "Yes?"

"Her car is pulling up, Monsieur." She said gently through the door. He laid down the letter he was reading and stood, the picture of elegance and nobility. The simple truth was, he was terrified.

He was, for once, glad his heart didn't beat—for he new enough of the physiological results of stress and he knew none of them would have helped in this situation.

He carefully straightened his jacket and ran his long fingers through his hair, in an unconscious effort to look his best without the help of a cursed mirror. He took an unneeded steadying breath and calmly walked down the hall from his study. Just as he turned the corner onto the grand stair landing, he heard the front door open and close. He looked down and saw the figure of a woman standing in the front hall, face obscured by a small hat, taking off a traveling jacket and gloves. He paused at the top of the stairs, hand grasping the banister and faintly making sure he didn't crush the marble into dust.

As she finally removed her hat, handing it to the footman, she turned to look up at him. As her shining, clear eyes met his, the world seemed to contract around him. And when the warmest, widest smile split her face, just for him, he thought there was nothing more beautiful in the entire world.

He wasn't sure how long they stood there, so close and yet still so far away from eachother, but suddenly he was moving quickly down to meet her as she crossed the black and white marble floor. And then, finally, all the fear, all the anxiety, was banished by her warm arms and sweet smell and familiar heartbeat.

"Oh Vlad," she whispered near his ear, the tips of her warm fingers burning against the back of his neck and through all the layers her wore like a shield. He would have held her tighter, if he was not afraid of crushing her, but her grip around him was strong enough that he had no worry of her slipping away again. He could feel a tear slide between their cheeks and was not sure if it was hers or his own.

"Let me look at you." He took her by the shoulders and pulled her away so he could see the changes in her face. He was stunned by what he saw. The girl he had known since her infancy was gone. The woman before him had the same dark, silken hair; the same sage green eyes; the same full lips. But, she stood an inch or so taller, her cheekbones were more pronounced, her dress and blouse showed off the fully developed body she carried elegantly and gracefully, and her skin was kissed with the hues of the Italian sun. The child-like wonder that had been slowly fading from behind her eyes and the corner of her mouth had fully given way to the mysterious and alluring smiles and glances of a woman. "But what is this? Where is my little Ina? You cannot possibly be the girl I sent to Roma to study art and history."

She laughed and he was pleased to see the sound itself had not changed, though he suspected her voice had settled into a warm mezzo-soprano range. "And who is this dashing young man, for you cannot be my Vlad—it's as though you stepped through some magic mirror and appear to me unchanged from the day I left!" She lifted a warm hand to his cheek; her words were in jest, but he suddenly fought to keep his face from revealing the pain that raced through his chest.

He hurriedly changed the subject by motioning her towards the dining hall. As they sat and ate, they fell back into the reparté they had enjoyed years before. They laughed at Ilona's stories of the young men and women of Rome. Vlad told her of changes in the village, Nantes, and his businesses in Paris. They both grew solemn as conversation inevitably turned to the encroaching war and what changes it might mean for them and the people of France; what it might mean for the world, if it escalated to that.

He was relieved with the ease they found in conversing, as though no time had passed at all. And yet, something much worse was beginning to make its self clear.

As he'd observed, she was no longer a young girl, but a woman I her prime and, oh, how she had bloomed. He noticed his eyes would begin to travel from her stunning eyes to linger on the curve of her neck or the rhythmic swelling of her chest as she breathed. He was entranced when her fingers began to idly play with the string of pearls he had bought her all those years ago. He felt the unwelcomed and almost forgotten pull in the pit of his stomach as her delicate scent traveled to him across the table, carrying with it the deeper, subtler, spicier scent of blood.

He pinched his eyes closed and consciously stopped breathing, hoping she wouldn't notice. But alas…

"Vlad, are you quite alright?"

"Hmm? Oh yes, of course, Ina. Forgive me."

"Have you had trouble sleeping, again?" She gave him the concerned look he had so missed, and it made him smile. Of course she would not forget his questionable sleeping habits. How many times had she crept into his study before dawn to find him writing away or sat by the dying fire, reading? How many times had she stirred when he slipped from her slumbering side, having promised to hold her small form, protecting her from monsters under the bed? An ironic request he had not failed to smirk at bitterly.

"No, no," he began, but she gave him a reprimanding look and he confessed, "well, no more than usual."

At least she had not noticed his hungry gaze. As he, once again, steered the conversation to a more pleasurable topic, he thought, more so than before, he had to find a cure; rid himself of the beastly urges he had tamped down for years and were suddenly rising to the surface.

He would not let his demons blemish the one pure thing he had ever achieved in this world.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He could not get her eyes out of his mind.

He found himself in a daze as he walked the worn cobblestone streets of Paris. His first goal was to re-acquaint himself with the city, to better manage his movements in a time of need. He was armed to the teeth with various weapons designed to kill or at least ensnare any possible enemy; natural or otherwise. The city was as bright and vibrant as ever, even more so with the installment of electricity in the city lights and cafés. The music, the dancing, the lovers in the streets seemed so far removed from the violence and anger stirring just a country away. And yet the sights and sounds were distant to him.

How had he, in just a few short days, become so entranced by the young woman he'd met in Rome? It had been so many years since he had even thought of such feelings, so long since he'd let himself imagine. He had sworn, after what had happened with Dracula to never bring another woman into his life. His profession, his lifestyle, his very existence made it impossible to think of such things as a wife or family.

But he was so tired.

Once he'd realized, a few years after Transylvania, that the curse had not been lifted; that he would continue to not age; that the Vatican would not let him, a weapon of God, find rest, his heart grew bitter. He knew, had it not been for Carl's companionship and levity, that he would have turned into a wretched man long ago. But his grumpiness didn't suit him and, in the company of such an entrancing woman as Ilona, his more dashing side still made brief appearances. And since the Church would always find him, should he run, he tried to make the most of the life he led.

But on some nights, when he looked at the mutilated body of an innocent towns person, or he saw the pain and fear of loss in a family's eyes; when the terrible monsters he fought reverted back to just a simple man, in death, he was no better than his greatest foe. Dracula had wanted a family. He had killed only as much as he needed to survive. He had been a husband and father and ruler in his own sick, twisted way. Could van Helsing say much better of himself? He was a tool, the arm of "justice" that brought nothing but death and destruction with him. He brought nothing into the world—he was a mere puppet. The only time he'd ever touched anything good and pure, he had killed it more swiftly than the demon who tormented her had.

Yes, on those nights when innocent, tearful eyes look at him in terror, he can almost sympathize with Dracula.

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He ducked into a bar called "Le Dé d'Or". In the 18^th arrondissement, located in the shadow of Sacré Coeur, it was in the heart of the area where the mysterious cases of blood loss had been reported. He had an appointment in the morning to meet with a local detective who had handled the initial reports, but for now he wanted to hear more first-hand accounts.

After chatting with a few of the locals, and buying a few rounds of drinks to loosen their tongues, he had a better understanding of what had happened, but even less idea of what was behind it. According to those closest to the victims, the attacks had happened late at night on their way home. None of them could remember actually being attacked; just that they woke in the dark alleys they walked every night, dizzy and confused, with needle marks in their forearms. The first victims that appeared in the hospital were treated for dehydration, but were in no serious danger. After a number of similar cases, the hospital reported the incidents, supporting the stories of the few victims who'd also turned to law enforcement. Who knew how many poor souls had simply continued on home and forgotten their mysterious encounter?

As he stepped out of the loud and crowded bar, he put his hat back on his head, and turned down the street to return to his hotel. After a block, the glowing white façade of the magnificent church upon the hill came into view and he paused in his step to gaze at it. Sighing, he turned on his heel and went to the door, unsure if it would be open this late at night. But as he approached, he saw the door stood ajar and the soft, familiar glow of candlelight falling on the step. He always found comfort in the worn wooden benches and quiet serenity of churches, and new that spending an hour in deep thought here would help calm and focus his mind. He dropped a coin into the collection box, the sound resonating off the vaulted ceiling like a gunshot, and took one of the slender white candles that sat beside it. As he crossed to the statue of the Virgin Mother, he bowed and crossed himself before placing the candle in an empty holder and lighting it.

How many candles, such as this, had he lit in churches across Europe? How many lights had shown for her? He sighed and closed his eyes, which did nothing but bring the memories into sharper focus. With every candle he sent a prayer to Anna, hoping she found peace, begging for her forgiveness.

He had not yet heard a response.

He made his way to a pew and took a seat, hoping the familiar scents and almost imperceptible sounds of a house of God would help him sort out what he had learned. But as his eyes lost focus and his breathing slowed in concentration, his mind came alive with images of blood and death, demons and monsters. He rubbed his temples and tried again to focus, but his thoughts turned, instead, to flashes of pale skin and ebony curls then clear green eyes and full lips.

With a groan that bounced off the stone floors, he tilted his head back in defeat. Even in the most sacred of places he could not rid himself of his sins. He knew he would find no answers this night.

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She took a steadying breath and met her own gaze in the mirror above the ornate sink in the down stairs hall bath. She saw her face was flushed and splashed a handful of cold water over her cheeks.

You can do this, Ilona, you must.

But it was proving more difficult than she'd anticipated. He was exactly how she'd remembered him, and yet so much more. The lines around his mouth told more than a mere smile could, his voice was richer, his eyes held so much knowledge and feeling. And how could she have ever forgotten the smell of him or the way his icy fingers always sent a slight shiver along her spine?

And she had been so relieved to find him unchanged, to see that their separation had not made him cold-hearted or miserly as she head feared for the last seven years. They had taken up their old discourse as though it were a favorite coat; comfortable and effortless to slip back into. She was home and she could rid herself of the lingering fears that something would be awkward between them. She was truly home.

And it made her plans all the more heart-wrenching to contemplate.

She could not miss the way he'd scrutinized her; the way his hand had naturally sought hers out when he led her to dinner; the pain she had caused by her long absence evident in his dark eyes, mixed with the relief of having her back. She'd consumed most of the conversation over dinner, along with a number of glasses of robust French wine. She hoped her blush would be blamed on the heady effects of one too many drinks, and not on the nerves that were writhing in her stomach.

But she had come too far to go back now.

She dabbed the droplets from her face and put her smile back in place. When her reflection was once again to her liking, she turned the handle and stepped back into the hall. She'd heard him head upstairs, so she turned and ascended them, heading towards his study. The door was ajar and she simply pushed it the rest of the way open, a compliment about the electrical fittings half out of her mouth when her eyes found him, leaning heavily on the desk, his back turned to her.

"Vlad!" She rushed to his side, her hands reaching out to meet his shoulders, lest he begin to fall. "Are you alright?"

He quickly flashed a half-smile at her and stood straight, turning out of her worried embrace. "Yes, of course, Ina, I didn't mean to worry you. Just a bit dizzy, probably no thanks to that second bottle of wine we opened." He tried to move around the desk, to put distance between them, but her hand grabbed his arm and led him, instead, to the high backed leather armchair that sat by the hearth. He let out a genuine laugh this time, "I assure you I'm fine, draga." But she gave him a silencing look and moved to poke at the embers in the grate to try and restart the flames. He'd forgotten that, despite being centuries younger than him, she could be quite the mother hen, even as a child. A comfortable silence settled over them as they both stared at the flickering light of the fire.

She decided that it was too soon to tell him. They'd both had a bit too much to drink and had only just been reunited. She knew she couldn't wait too long, but a few days to settle in would do them both some good, especially if he wasn't feeling well—she had a feeling the chardonnay was not too blame for his "dizziness". This helped settle her stomach somewhat, the pressure of such a life-changing conversation relieved for the night.

"It's been a long time since I've heard you call me that," she looked over her shoulder to give him a warm but subtle smile, breaking the silence. "I missed it."

"Did I not call you 'Ina' in my letters?" he asked, rhetorically, knowing full well that every one of the hundreds of letters they'd sent between each other was either addressed to or signed Ina.

She turned to face him and clasped her hands before her. "No, not that," He rose and met her beside the mantel, his hand subconsciously rising to move a stray strand of hair from her cheek. She tried very hard to hide the shiver that raced across her skin.

He frowned slightly at her—she must not have hid it well—but the lines between his brows disappeared as his eyes traced the lines of her face. She wondered what he saw there. When she tried to read the marks the past seven years had carved into her visage, she saw a beautiful mask of a confident yet aloof woman hiding a hollow, scared little girl who was so far from home. She had hoped, when she returned, that the sadness, the distance in her eyes would vanish and only the playful mystery that had resided in their bright depths since she was a child would remain. But she had searched them earlier, and her smile still didn't quite reach their corners.

She prayed that he saw nothing of her pain in them, as she could so easily see the pain in his.

"I'm so glad you are home, draga," he almost whispers since he is close enough to feel her breath on his cheek.

"Me too," Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn't pull her eyes from his. For a moment, for a brief moment, she thought he had something more to say, something more to do, but then his hand pats her shoulder and he waves her off to bed. He leaves the study before she can even move.

Maybe she won't need to wait a few days after all.
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Draga