The double bride: The Deadly Prisoner of the vampire count

Who was that woman? I was called to the Bath

“Be careful,” he breathed over Eileen's ears. “You'll be punished for breaking my property.”

Just then, a corner of the curtain blew up. The moonlight lit up the count's profile.

“Stop the car!” Snapped the count.

The car came to a sudden stop and Eileen crashed into the car seat. Von Nordlock tore open the door and the cold wind filled it with fallen leaves. He grabbed Eileen by the wrist and pulled her out of the car, where they stood on a bridge over a rushing river.

“You see,” he pushed Eileen to the bridge, Eileen's back against the cold stone railing, “If you jump off here, the river will wash you twenty miles away, and with any luck, you'll freeze to death before then.”

His golden eyes burned in the darkness. “Shall We Try Your Luck, Blood?”

Eileen's fingers clung to the stone railing, his rosary beads burning in his pockets. She knew it was a test, and perhaps every blood slave he had ever bought had gone through it. To jump is to die, but to give in means longer torture.

“My Name is Eileen,” she said, staring at his lapel pin, the ruby like curdled blood. “Not astral, not property, Irene Wyett.”

His expression froze. For a moment, Eileen seemed to see something else in his eyes -- surprise.

“Interesting.” He let go of his hand and smiled suddenly, showing his sharp canine teeth. “Maybe you'll live longer than the last one.”

As we pulled into the villa's courtyard, Eileen looked out the window and saw at first glance a large portrait hanging in the middle of the main hall. The frame is carved out of ebony, with silver thorns and roses around the edges, and sharp thorns that seem to poke into the viewer's eyes. The woman in the painting is dressed in a 19th-century burgundy velvet gown with a beaded neckline and pale fingers resting lightly on a gilded ancient book. But the most breathtaking thing was her face, which was almost identical to Eileen's. The same long blond hair, the same ice-blue eyes, even the slight upward curve of the lips. Just the eyes of the painting more cold, like a poisoned silver dagger, beautiful but deadly. In the flickering candlelight, Eileen had the illusion that the eyes were following him. When Eileen was shown to her room, she found the gallery covered with portraits of her, a girl, standing in the garden in a white lace dress, holding a faded red rose. As an adult, he stood over a dead wolf in a hunting suit, his toes stained with blood, his smile haughty. In the last, she lies in a coffin with her hands folded on her chest, her fingertips a dead-man's blue-gray. Eileen's fingertips brushed the frame with a damp shade of red. She drew back her hand like an electric shock, and heard the count's low smile behind her. “These pictures, they are all painted in blood,” he whispered against her ear. “The blood of a bloody spirit like you.”

Eileen entered the room and ran her fingers over the silk drapes of the four-poster bed, a touch so foreign to her as to be almost unreal. During her time at the orphanage, she slept on straw-filled burlap mats, with a dozen girls crammed into the same room each night, her memories a swirl of coughs and sobs.

“Is this really my room?” She asked the guide for the third time, in a voice so soft that it seemed to frighten away this too good dream.

Cloy, the maid, pursed her lips, and the candlelight cast a dancing shadow on her mean face. “For you, of course, Miss,” she said, accenting the honorific, “From the master himself.”

Eileen pretended not to hear the sarcasm. From the moment she pulled through the cast-iron gates, she sensed the eerie atmosphere that pervaded the villa. The maids in their black dresses looked at her like a butcher at a lamb awaiting slaughter.

When Cloy finally left, Eileen checked the door. There was no lock -- a discovery that was both reassuring and frightening. She turned to the carved wardrobe in the middle of the room, which was hung with a dozen or so exquisite dresses, all of the right size for her figure.

“He had a plan to buy me,” muttered Eileen, running her fingers unconsciously over the hidden pockets on the inside of her skirt. The hard outline of the Rosary gave comfort through the fabric.

Outside the window, a blood moon hung over the tower's spire. Eileen remembered the portrait he had seen walking through the gallery that afternoon. The woman in the painting is dressed in 19th-century clothes, and her pale face is still breathtakingly beautiful in the mottled paint. Most disturbingly, the face was almost identical to Eileen's in the mirror.

D-D-D-D.

The knock on the door almost made Eileen jump. Before she could answer, Cloy pushed the door open. “The master wants to see you,” the maid said, her eyes flicking over Eileen's dress

The corridors were more sinister than the day. Candlesticks on the walls on both sides cast flickering halos that lengthen and shorten their shadows, like some kind of eerie dance. Eileen noticed that Cloy kept her at arm's length, as if she carried the plague.

“Who is that lady in the picture?” Eileen ventured.

Cloy paused visibly. “That's the master's lover,” she said, her voice suddenly sharp, “But I heard she was dead.”, “I suggest you don't ask questions. A blood bag has to have a blood bag.”

Eileen's blood froze. She should have known-the terrible rumors of vampires, the girls who disappeared from orphanages every few years, the unnaturally pale skin of von Nordlock...

They stopped at a dark oak door. Cloy knocked three times, and a deep male voice came through the door. “Come in.”

The maid pushed the door open but didn't go in. She just gave Eileen the evil look to go in alone. As soon as Eileen crossed the threshold, the door behind him slid shut, and the sound of the lock was audible.

The hot air filled my face with the smell of herbs. It was a round bathroom, with a centrally sunken pool that oozed blood-red liquid -- not water, as Eileen discovered to his horror, that was too thick and had a spooky dark red sheen in the candlelight.

“Come here, Eileen,” came a voice from the middle of the pool.

Von nordrock leaned against the edge of the pool, his wet black hair against his pale neck. Even in the heat, his skin was white enough to see the blue veins below. Water dripped down his stout chest, a body that had the grace of an aristocrat and the strength of a predator.

Eileen's gaze was drawn uncontrollably. Almost all the men she had seen in orphanages were emaciated, and she had never known the human body to be so... Too perfect to be human.

“I say,” said von Nordrock, rising slowly, drops of water rolling from his chiseled belly, “Come and bathe me.”

Eileen's mind went blank. She moved mechanically forward, but tripped over the hem of her skirt. In the Descent of the world, the next second, the cold liquid soaked through her clothes. Something that smelled of rust poured into her nose. She struggled in terror, but was lifted easily by a strong hand.

“How Stupid,” said von Nordlock, with a dangerous delight in his voice. He lifted Eileen to the edge of the pool, but didn't let go.

The soggy fabric clings to Eileen's body, tracing the curves of a teenage girl. She shivered violently, whether from cold or fear. Von Nordrock's eyes snaked across her bare neck, where pale blue veins were visible beneath her pale skin.

“Golem. . .” he whispered, his fangs stretched uncontrollably. “Are you seducing me?”

Eileen smelled danger -- not just in the words, but in the thrill of a wild animal stalking its prey. His pupils contracted into two thin lines, which glowed eerily red in the candlelight. He leaned close to her neck and inhaled deeply, as if savoring some delicious aroma.

Instinct finally prevailed over fear. Irene threw herself back, but was fastened to the nape of her neck by his clamp-like hands. Her flailing arm was easily overpowered by the other hand, which pinned her to the edge of the marble pool. The icy surface of the stone sent a piercing chill through the wet clothes.

“Please...” Eileen's plea was interrupted by pain She let out an unnatural scream the moment her sharp canine teeth pierced the blood vessel at the side of her neck. The world blurred in agony, and she felt the warm blood being forced out of her body and into her veins, replaced by some cold toxin.