Hermannstadt, Christmas Eve, 1769

"One moment, Eos..."

His sonorous voice had cut through the music and the noise of the crowd and had immediately halted her march to the door. She'd turned back towards it, scowling through her gold mask as his sober, black suit and silhouette emerged from the throng of brightly coloured silks like a black cloud on a summer afternoon.

"...I'm not quite finished with you yet," he'd said.

She'd thrown her hands up and huffed. Why had he followed her? "Well, I've certainly had my fill of you," she'd replied as he shoved his way towards her.

"Not yet, you haven't."

The moment he'd thrown down the ace of diamonds and taken the game, Irina had torn away from the table with an indignant (and rather undignified) grunt – kicking over her chair in the process. The shame of it – of losing to him – had broken her, and she'd been desperate to leave at any cost, but she'd barely made it through into the next room before she heard his voice calling after her. How had he caught up to her so quickly?

And suddenly there he was, looming over her like a shadow creeping up a wall; she hadn't noticed how tall he was whilst he was sat at the gaming table. She'd had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. "...You've already taken both my pearls and my pride, Count," she'd said. "What more could you possibly want?"

"I very much doubt you'll mourn the loss," he'd jibed smoothly; "I imagine ladies like you have more jewels than you have places to wear them–"

She'd glared at him; she was tired of being picked apart by a total stranger, "You know nothing of–"

"I think I've more than demonstrated that I do – and as for your pride?" he'd interrupted fluidly as he invaded her space.

She'd stopped breathing; with every breath she seemed to draw more of him in - his musk, his magnetism.

His lips had curled beneath his mask. "From what I can tell, you could certainly stand to lose a little."

"How dare you!" Irina had snarled, rising a little taller to challenge him. "If you had any idea who I was then you'd swallow those words, Count; they'd be enough to have you whipped."

The idea seemed to amuse him. "...I'd take the whipping if it meant I could have your name," he'd dared her, knowing that she'd never reveal her identity to him; it was a card she was keeping very close to her chest. "...Or are you going to make me guess?"

"The only games I play are card games."

With nothing more to say, she'd rolled her eyes as she grabbed her skirts and spun away from him – ripping through one of the soft, chartreuse curtains dangling beside her. She'd hoped – prayed – that it might lead to a way out - that she could lose him - but instead it simply led into one of the cellar's stone cloisters and nothing but a dead end. A dead end furnished sparingly with a ripped chaise, a rickety side table cluttered with half empty champagne glasses, and a stuttering candelabra spitting wax onto the flagstones.

And then the curtain was suddenly swept to the side. When he ducked inside with a predatory look in his eyes, she'd taken a step back. "...If you dare lay a finger on me–"

Half amused, half offended, he'd scoffed at the notion. "Without permission? I wouldn't dream of it, Eos," he'd replied, prowling towards her. He'd opened his arms and bowed, "After all, it is darkness who succumbs to the dawn – not the other way around."

She'd stared as he lifted his dark head and smiled at her. He'd been charming – so charming – and Irina wondered why she hadn't seen it before. "...Then, what?" she'd demanded, her hands hanging limp at her side. "What do you want?"

"...Well," he'd said, standing up. "I believe that the victor of a game of Mariagenspiel – as a rule – must kiss the loser. I'd hate for you to leave feeling as though I deprived you of your due. Especially on the eve of Lent, with all those serious, sober weeks ahead of you-"

Almost as if by magic, a distant tolling bell could be heard. Midnight.

Irina had practically laughed as she folded her arms; she'd been amused by such a weak ruse to kiss her. And yet, she'd blushed at the thought. "You're too late; it's already Lent."

He'd looked down at his boots and chuckled. "...Allow me to give you something to atone for, then."

"That won't be necessary," she'd told him, but her whole body had prickled when she caught the mischievous look in his eyes.

"Oh, but I insist," he'd purred.

She'd raised an eyebrow under her mask. "...You didn't insist upon such a rule with your previous opponent."

He'd hesitated at that. "...Well, my previous opponent wasn't quite as... alluring," he'd explained as he circled her, his gaze roaming. "It's not every night you happen across a Goddess."

Irina had felt every muscle in her body tense when he stopped in front of her and then stooped to meet her gaze. Her lips had parted to respond, but words had failed her. She'd pulled a face and snorted - she couldn't have him thinking that he'd rendered her speechless after all.

"...In fact, I confess; I've never wanted to play by the rules more," he'd told her, almost in a whisper. "And you should know, Eos; that isn't exactly considered my forté."

She'd smirked. "That, I think I can believe."

Of all the men who'd flirted with her at court – all the boys who'd brought her roses from the gardens (risking the wrath of the Empress' gardener) or pestered her father for the freedom to ask her to dance... even the ones she'd brazenly locked eyes with at the opera and then flirted with through the second act from behind her fan – none of them had looked at her the way he had that night. His arrogance, coupled with that charming smile and slippery gaze had infected her with a fever so fierce she felt she might burst into flames at any moment.

And yet, her brown eyes had flashed nervously at the silhouettes and shadows dancing on the other side of the curtain before she dared to meet his eyes. "Very well," she'd whispered as she lifted her wrist – weighed heavily by a gold and diamond chain. "...You may kiss my hand."

She'd never forgotten the way he'd blinked once at her hand before he took it, nor the way he'd held her gaze as he lifted it and turned it over – exposing the fine blue veins along the inside of her wrist. He'd traced the pale skin there with his lips – slowly – watching her eyelashes flutter in surprise and her breath stick in her throat. When she'd offered no objection, he'd gently reeled her in – pulling her arm over his shoulder and slipping one hand down to her bodice. The other had cupped the back of her neck – his thumb sweeping along her jaw and disturbing the diamond chandelier swinging from her earlobe.

And that was how – for just one night – she gave in to darkness.

Irina leaned back against the medieval walls of the Lupesci great hall, teasing the black pearls around her neck and briefly closing her eyes as she remembered how Vlad had suddenly drawn her in and teased his lips against hers – a soft, all too brief kiss before he pulled back and danced them just out of reach. With that kiss, he'd coaxed the temptress from the very cellar of her soul, and in the end she was the one who finally closed the gap, frowning as she threw one arm around his neck and held his face with the other – rising onto her toes as she seized his smirking lips with her own.

She'd inhaled sharply, inhaled him – the musk of his skin, his hair, his clothes – woody and wild – and after a clumsy first touch she'd quickly settled in – moving her lips firmly against his. It had been like plunging into a dark lake; after that first, hesitant step into the blue she'd waded deeper – becoming more confident with each stroke – until she submerged herself fully and willingly sunk down to the misty depths.

The thoughts in her head – all those fears and misgivings – had all at once been drowned out.

He'd kissed her thoroughly – one hand in her hair and the other tangled in the laces of her gown as he matched her fevered pace; he'd beat the breath from her lungs when he forced her back against the stone wall of the cloister. And when his hand had swooped down the arched column of her neck and traced the outline of her collarbone and the lace fringing along her neckline, she'd wondered how such a simple touch could illicit such a sensation deep within her. She'd ached for more, and when he palmed the swell of her breast within her bodice she'd moaned into his mouth.

Vlad. She'd told him to stay away from her and yet, she couldn't seem to get him out of her head. As it turned out, he'd always been lurking there – a faceless specter, half forgotten that she'd resurrected every now and then when she needed to feel the darkness again, when she needed to comfort herself with its presence.

"...Duchess?"

Irina glanced up and blinked at Liesl Fleischer, who was standing in front of her with a bewildered look on her face. She pushed away from the wall and smiled politely, "Fraulein. Fröhliche Weihnachten – Merry Christmas."

Liesl curtseyed, elegantly bowing a powdered wig glimmering with diamond stars. "Fröhliche Weihnachten, Duchess," she replied with a fretful smile. "Are you... well?"

"I'm fine, all things considered. Thank you for asking," Irina replied with a nod, her eyes flashing nervously across the great hall and towards the gaggle of guests who were sending pointed looks in her direction and gossiping over their glasses of wine.

Despite Prince Lupesci's reassurances that she was very welcome to attend the Christmas Eve Ball in his home, his other guests hadn't felt quite as at ease with her presence. Gossip about her was as fresh and as fragrant as the roast boar being served up – shot by the prince that very afternoon – and the town feasted upon its flesh with much the same fervour as they gorged on the stories circulating about her. Stories spread that painted her as a witch and a whore and a murderess – a dangerous woman.

It was getting out of control; two windows in the Governor's palace had been broken by angry peasants that very week, and her carriage had been mobbed on the ride over. Only her patients – the women she'd helped – knew the truth, but unfortunately, they were far too scared to raise their voices over the rabble.

Liesl fanned herself impatiently; she wanted to remind Irina that she hadn't forgotten her kindness but was clearly desperate not to linger for too long. "I do love your gown, Duchess," she remarked with a smile, gesturing to the waves of teal satin cascading from Irina's bodice. "...And those pearls. Quite unusual."

Irina thanked her; she was grateful for the gesture at least. "...They belonged to my mother, the late Duchess."

"Oh, that reminds me, how is your father?" Liesl asked.

"He's... much improved," Irina lied; if it had been true he'd be standing beside her instead of languishing in his bed.

When she poked her head in to check on him before leaving for the ball, he'd been drifting in and out – and when his eyes fluttered open for the briefest of moments – enough to take in her pearls and fine gown – he'd smiled and called her by her mother's name. Irina's only solace was that Fiebe had promised to sit with him – with Folie and Scapino curling up close by. She'd be back before midnight, she'd promised.

Liesl looked relieved. "Oh, I'm so glad to hear it!" she said, glancing once over her shoulder before she leaned in and lowered her voice. "...He's lucky to have a daughter like you, because – and I don't care what horrid lot are saying – if there's anyone who's capable of performing a miracle, it's you."

Irina bit her lip and nodded. If only that were true, she thought to herself.

"As soon as he's on his feet he'll put a stop to these treacherous lies, I know it," Liesl said with a wink.

Irina tacked on a brave smile. "...I know," she said. She waved her fan, "You should go; my disgrace is probably contagious."

Liesl offered her a sympathetic nod, and then – having done her duty – turned on her heel and returned to the mob, who immediately swarmed around her.

Irina rolled her eyes as she turned away from their disapproving glares and wandered the fringes of Transylvanian society and the great hall – gazing up at the medieval weaponry and artwork adorning the ancient stone walls.

The Lupesci Kastélya was practically a fortress; a crumbling, red building adjoining the town fortifications – including one of the towers. The hallways were as cold and as unwelcoming as Prince Lupesci himself, while the décor was fanatically traditional – from the carved wooden ceilings, to the iron chandeliers and threadbare tapestries. There were weapons from the Turkish wars decorating columns and archways, while a dusty pack of stag heads – with glazed, black eyes and slack jaws – looked down on the hall. While the other guests appeared to find it all a charming throwback, Irina found that it gave her the chills.

She fiddled with the bones of her fan as she stared up at a portrait of – undoubtedly – one of the prince's long-dead ancestors. It could have easily been Prince Lupesci; the two men seemed to share the same judgmental look in their hazel eyes, and the same pointed nose and snarling lips. There was something in their shape and stature too; the man in the portrait was thuggish and firm, domineering in presence with his chin and sword raised proudly, whilst he wore a bristling, grey wolf hide as if it were a coronation mantle. The only difference was the fashion; the velvet doublet and black hose were a little fifteenth century.

The portrait was completed with the Lupesci family crest; a shield displaying a wolf. Irina had seen it everywhere that evening; on the gates of the courtyard, above doorways, and on almost every portrait – not to mention Prince Lupesci's signet ring.

Below it was a Latin inscription that read; LUPUS AD TENEBRAS NON TIMEBAT.

Irina's lips murmured soundlessly as she translated, "A wolf is not afraid of darkness."

"My four times great grandfather, and the last true King of Hungary," said the prince, his voice growling suddenly from behind.

Irina startled and turned to face him. "Your highness," she sighed, catching her breath.

"I frightened you," he realised, gesturing for her hand.

"Hardly," Irina scoffed as she placed her hand in his and watched as he pressed his lips to her curled knuckles. She pulled away and returned her attention to the portrait, "An ancestor of yours? I was just admiring – uh, studying – his portrait. You look just like him."

The prince seemed pleased to hear it; his lips cracked into one of his near smiles as he followed her gaze and glanced up at the portrait. He stepped alongside her, "He was a great man; a great King."

"I'm sure," Irina replied politely, side-glancing him. "Although, I'm afraid my history isn't very good when it comes to dead Hungarian Kings. What was he known for?"

"Well, among other things, he was a fearsome warrior," the prince explained. "He ruled Hungary peacefully for many years – fending off the invading Turks and standing up to Austrian demands – but he also made it his duty to protect his homeland – this land – from a long line of pitiless rulers."

Irina looked at him. "Pitiless? How so?" she asked.

Prince Lupesci smiled, "Even if your Hungarian history isn't very good, Irina, I'm certain you've heard stories of that murderous Wallachian warmonger known as The Impaler?"

"...The uh, moniker certainly rings a bell," she replied, clearing her throat a little.

"Well, my four times great grandfather was the one who brought the beast to heel and imprisoned him after he slaughtered his own subjects and allied with the Turks."

Irina frowned; it wasn't exactly the same version she'd heard straight from the source himself. "That's not what I heard," she muttered, and when the prince's gaze turned on her with suspicion she looked away. She cleared her throat, "I mean, there are so many different versions to the tale of Vlad Țepeș – the tale of Dracula. How can we know which one is the truth?"

The prince snorted, "The one told to me by my father. The one told to him by his father," he replied before continuing with his history lesson. "In that story, eventually – and without the support Austria had promised – the Turkish Janissary broke through and seized my great grandfather's legacy – splitting his lands. The Habsburgs took the north, the Turks took hold of Buda and the low-lands, and the home of my ancestors – Transylvania – became torn between the two."

Irina nodded along politely, all the while warring with Vlad's slightly different interpretation. "...Fascinating."

"My family were given two options," Prince Lupesci continued, "either to bring Transylvania under Habsburg rule, or to buy back the throne from the Turks and become their subjects. They chose – in their mind – lesser of two evils and continued to rule Transylvania for many years, fending off Habsburg interests until the might of Turks began to decay at the end of the last century."

Irina's lips curled, turning to face him. She whipped open her fan, "Ah yes," she sighed. "The Turks moved out and we moved in."

Prince Lupesci looked down at her. "...Perhaps someday we'll have the place to ourselves again."

Irina raised an eyebrow. "Vienna would have to melt into the Danube first," she threatened. "...And I think actually, neither of us have a claim to these lands."

He chuckled humorlessly. "...Ah. I almost forgot," he said suddenly, snapping his fingers at a footman who had been waiting in the wings. "I have a gift for you."

The footman hurried over, and – draped across his arms – he carried a long pelt of silver fur, the fibers shuddering as he marched. It was beautiful, and Irina stared as it was handed it over to the prince.

Prince Lupesci smoothed the stole with his rough hand. "I tracked this one for two weeks after our hunting trip," he said, strolling behind her. "I finally caught up with it in the forests near Avrig. Determined fighter, but no match for my crossbow."

Irina froze as he wrapped the stole around her shoulders. As the soft fur tickled her skin and the guests all stared, a lump swelled up in her throat that she seemed unable to swallow.

His hands settled heavily on her shoulders. "...As I've told you before, I always win in the end," he whispered in her ear before stepping in front of her. He lifted her chin to meet his gaze – his signet ring chilling her skin.

Irina shuddered; the town was already ablaze talking about her, and now Prince Lupesci had added fuel to that fire. Giving a gift to a lady in public was sign of intent – he may as well have signed his name upon her forehead. "...You really shouldn't have."

He shrugged his lips. "I couldn't resist."

"You ought to have tried a little harder."

The prince held her gaze. "Well, it is the season of giving after all," he replied, waving a hand. "Besides... You wear it well."

Irina looked past him and noticed the envied stares of the women hovering on the edge of the dance floor. "...I'm overcome. Will you excuse me for a moment?"

The prince