Baron Moore recently had taken to wearing an orange frock coat with thin gray stripes. He called the color “burnt copper,” and something about the conviction with which he said it made you agree with him until you saw it in sunlight. Had the baron’s poetry been any worse than it was, or had he been significantly poorer or richer than he was, he would have looked ridiculous in it. Though, even then, I often wondered if he didn’t look ridiculous in it, however he never betrayed having a similar wonder.

About a month ago I was at his house for a party, flipping alone through his books in the library, when I saw the coat draped over a chair. I put it on and went to a window to see my reflection. I squinted and changed my posture to see if I could see myself in it, but at that moment the baron stumbled in and said something to the effect that I was finally starting to dress like I had the proper men’s equipment in my trousers. I, however, quickly took it off. Of late, he had added flowery scarves and colorful buttonholes to his wardrobe. And with each passing week, I feel slightly more uncomfortable putting on my simple black coat, as if visiting an old friend the time apart had made less of.

Last night I was warming my usual leather chair at The Cat and Mace when the baron, orange coat and all, flew through the door like a strong gust of wind and with a similar flourish landed in the chair across from me. His brow and smile both leaned rakishly to the upper left. He threw his hat onto the table and gazed out of the window, which you couldn’t see out of this time of night, so I took it as a symbolic gesture.

“Jack, I’ve met the love of my life,” He said.

“By which you mean Miss Alexandrovinov,” I said, moving his hat from off of my oyster and steak.

“What? How did you know?” he said. “And why do you say her name so frivolously?”

“Frivolously? I would never do such a thing,” I said. “Say a name like that frivolously and you haven’t got a chance. No, no, it requires the utmost concentration. And I knew you would fall in love with her the moment I introduced you to her. After all, she has brunette hair and never smiles.”

“Oh, but that seriousness is actually all part of how witty she can be.”

“Must be a Russian sense of humor.” I said, knifing another forkful from the plate.

“Pah!” He said, and meant me to take it personally.

At the first party Miss Sasha Alexandravinov attended after coming to London, she wore a burgundy dress that swung low over the front of her bust. As she was a stranger to our society and a foreigner, it caused quite a sensation in both women’s and men’s conversations over the next few weeks, though I’d wager between them there were slightly different attitudes regarding the dress.

From my memory, the dress revealed little more than the bones under her skin along the breast, for Miss Alexandrovinov was a lanky bird-like woman a few inches taller than the Baron, and the Baron is already on the taller side of men. She was a woman of angles and lines, and had a sharpness to her face that matched the low guttural accent, though none would deny that the softness rounding off those edges, and the large deer eyes, and the small mouth overall made for a very beautiful creature indeed. Particularly if one was interested in exotic wildlife.

Not allowing myself romantic inclinations these days, I all the more notice nature from more of the scientist angle, to carry the jungle analogy further. For instance, it didn’t slip my attention that any men who wondered away from talking with her left her to some small degree in love with her. Charles Williamson speculated it was merely the dress, the color, her hair, perfume, all of it attainable and willingly worn. Reggy Billingsworth, in confidence, attributed her power to the way her mouth moved when she tried to pronounce our words, or the way she looked at men in the eyes and never looked away (whereas something about ancient British instincts have made our women hardly ever look one in the eye). In my private thoughts, I attributed it to a certain way she had of always standing in the perfect empty space in a room, and the way she stood there, as a figure out at sea, one you were not sure if she were drowning or a mirage. I told this to the Baron, the only one I shared such thoughts with, and he agreed with me, adding that both gave men the urge to jump overboard.

In that same conversation he told me though he could, I believe the term was “do unspeakable acts on a woman like her,” he could never really love her as she had committed his greatest sacrilege: There was no sign of opinion in her flirtation – to her, all men were equal, and, equally capable of deserving what nameless and exotic promises her flirtations almost gave. (It was later that same night that I tried on his orange coat in the library.)

A fortnight passed where I didn’t hear news of the baron, or attended any parties myself as I had closed myself off from the world and retreated into my library. However, the baron himself put a stop to that by busting through my door and bringing several of his servants along to cook us dinner. During that time, we talked of many things, and conversation once again turned towards her. “Sure, she fishes for men. But she always throws them back, and, mark my words, Jack, somewhere there is a lover who has all of her heart. Be him alive or dead, a fantasy or a reality, he is there. She loves something more. Much more.”

I went to several more parties, and saw them increasingly enjoying each other’s company, but never did it suggest to me anything more than a simple intrigue, which the baron had many of. At the WIlliamson’s party, they sat together at dinner. And that night, I realized others in the group were making bolder choices in coats. Though none went for orange, I was now often the only man in black.
And last night, sitting across from me at the pub, after saying “Pah!” to put me in my place, his urge to tell me his news overcame his anger. He leaned over the table and drew me towards him with a look.

“The night you saw us at the Williamson party, we consummated our passion. I know you don’t want to hear this part but I tell you anyway. It was a quick and violent affair. It was more like fighting a boy than lovesport. But after, Jack…after it was over, she sat on the floor. She sat there, freezing time for us, weeping. I can only say she wept like an elderly woman would, it was strange. I have never experienced that. But it changed something in me, and ever since I have not been able to stop thinking about her.”

I had stopped eating and leaned back against the booth.

“There is a problem, of course.”

“The husband back in Russia?” I offered, weakly.

“The daughter. From the husbands first marriage. Sasha claims she loves her more than anything, even though I never hear her speak of her. I say we could be happy. We could go to Italy and have our own family, and she could let the husband take her daughter. Remember that lover I told you about, Jack? The thing she loves more? Well, Sasha thinks her daughter is the thing she loves more, but I think she has forced that love into that box. If I can just spend some more time with her alone, she’ll see that.”

Jack the Vampire is currently on a sabbatical, but will return in due time. I am currently wish to work out a few writing kinks before continuing with the Jack stories. Thank you for your interest!

One of my good “breather” friends, Charles “Chip” DuBois, recently revealed to me, over a pipe on my front porch, that he was a “fag.”

I was a fag in my early years at Eton, but that only involved me shining shoes and running errands and that type of thing. I had only once or twice in those days heard stories from fellow fags about the kind of things modern gay men reportedly do, but I was so young and naive in the ways of the world that I assumed no man ever desired anything more than the Greek woman in the statue in my father’s study. And I always thought, as a youngster, that when we insulted a chap by saying he liked other chaps, it was simply just an insulting way of saying he couldn’t play Rugger. There simply wasn’t a further implication in my head.

Of course, by the time I was at Oxford, and especially in my first few years in the darkness, I was suddenly made aware of the “love that dare never speak it’s name.” One heard rumors whispered in clubs about this or that person, and honestly, I had o idea what to truly think of it all. Besides, I was in my own way questioning faith and what it all meant and whatnot, which I figured I should sort out first, as it would perhaps help me answer a lot of other questions I was having, such as the question of homosexuality.

I have to admit, I haven’t thought about it much more over the years, but since I have reawakened in the twenty-first century, and since Chip mentioned on the porch that he fancied other men, I have revisited things.

He didn’t start off on my porch. I was there alone, enjoying the breeze off of the bay and smoking a pipe, a habit I had taken up recently when I fully realized that I owned a front porch. In the Charleston battery, if you own a front porch, it is only a matter of time before a linen suit, three rocking chairs and a pipe follows.

About halfway through my first bowl, Chip stepped on my porch, wearing an undone bow-tie and a tailor-fit crested blazer. Charles is six feet tall and thirty. He soon will be bald, but is not yet, and I see how this fact determines almost everything he does in his life.

“Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack,” he said, followed by several more “Jacks.”

“Chip, Chip, Chip, Chip, Chip?” I replied.

“I just had to talk to someone rational, and I figured a guy who walks around in a frock coat and owns a pink house is the closest thing I’ll find tonight.” If it sounds cold, don’t think it was. This is often the way we talk to each other, in jests and jabs. “May I?” he added.

“You’re not looking so chipper, what’s wrong?” I said, handing him my tobacco and a box of matches.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, and then smoldered for a few moments as he lit his pipe. “Alright, forget it, I’ll tell you. It’s these Charleston fags.”

I looked up from my pipe.

“I know, I know,” He said, shaking out the match and leaning against the banister. “I’m one of them. But I can still be pissed off. I just came back from a meeting of the Stodgy Gay Men’s Society, which used to be my only haven, the only place I could go to be with other gay men that didn’t involve House music–”

He stopped talking at this point because I had asked him to double back for a moment.

“I’m sorry, The Stodgy Gay Men’s Society?” I asked.

“I call us the Wiffinpoofs. We’re basically a group of old and young gay men who sit around in tweed and complain about things. Do you know any Episcopal choir men?”

“A few.”

“Well, they’re probably in our club.”

“I see,” I said, and mused for a bit about how, even being in on some of the greatest secrets of the world, there was still a great deal I didn’t know about. My mind was reeling, basically. But after a century of hiding my emotions and pretending I understood everything, I doubt Chip noticed.

Well, I don’t know much about modern gay culture, but Chip mentioned that it’s often the case that a person who has just come out of the closet will “flame out,” I believe is the way he put it. I was lost again and Chip explained that this meant he adopts a catty and overly flirtatious persona, becomes very loud and spends half of his conversations mentioning how proud he is to be gay. Chip mentioned how they considered themselves very fashionable, but tended to be dressed like a 1980s aerobic instructor who’s jeans had shrunk. Knowing Chip as I did, I could tell this fashion bashing was symbolic of a greater grudge.

“I mean, they give gay men a bad name,” he said. “Worse! A bad, ridiculous name.”

I could tell he was upset, so I took the liberty of opening some port and giving him a pint glass.

“Who I’m angry at, however, is David. Thank You, Jack, keep pouring, please. David, who should know damn well who would fit into the Wiffinpoofs and who would not. Thank you, that will do. He invites his new friend–I’m sure they’re just friends, too, by the way–to come to our meeting and if the man didn’t bust out of the closet less than three months ago then I’m Jerry Rice. You want to know how I know? Because he didn’t straighten his wrist once, he wouldn’t shut up about how much he liked wearing a bow tie, and he wouldn’t stop complaining about how he had to watch his weight, which didn’t seem to stop him from eating all the fucking brie.”

“I’ve got some in the refrigerator.” I said.

“Do you have anything bleu?” he said, holding up the port.

I fetched the cheeses and Chip fell into the adjoining rocking chair. For awhile we ate in silence and felt the breeze curl through the passage between our house and the next, along the front porch. After a few moments, Chip, though still restless, was noticeably calmer.

“Sorry to complain,” he said. “There are other things, of course.”

“I’m sorry you had a rough evening.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad. But you know, Jack? The the thing that really, really made me angry? He started to spew out something about oil he had obviously heard from some talk show or from a friend without putting a single thought into it, and I called him out on it. He called me a conservative, and when I told him I was, he gave me this horrified look and shrieked so loud my ear is still ringing. So I told him, just because I’m gay, it doesn’t mean I don’t have any sense. I’m sorry, I know you’re fairly liberal-minded, but it’s how I feel. And you know what he did? He called me a traitor.”

“Well, that’s a bit harsh, what?” I said. I had no idea why he would be called a “traitor,” mind you, but a little internet research has since educated me on the general feel of conservative America towards gays.

“But the thing is, Jack, he’s the traitor. He’s the traitor!” He poked at the air with the baguette. “Because he doesn’t know anything about oil! He doesn’t even know who the hell he is, and he has the gall to call me a traitor. And do you know what’s going to happen next? I’ll tell you, because I’ve already started to see it happening. He’s going to go around, wearing bow ties and crested blazers, and it will become a trend, and people will look at me when I walk down the street, dressed like a real gentleman, and they’ll think I’m like him. One who’s wearing it ironically. A modern gay man wearing old dandy clothes. But I don’t wear it ironically, Jack. I wear it because I’m actually stodgy. Because I’m actually a gentleman. The bastard.”

Well, I didn’t completely understand how we had gone from oil politics to personal fashion, but I nodded my head. For my own part, my mind was thinking back to the beginning of the conversation, where he confessed he was gay. And I was glad to know that, once he said it, it did not change the opinion I had of him. I always did like Charles a lot, and I still did. However, coming to that conclusion, I realized I hadn’t been paying attention to what was actually on his mind, and I would be willing to bet a great deal none of it really had anything to do with him liking chaps.

Awakening from my thoughts, I noticed him looking at me, searching for something in my eyes, perhaps.

“I think you understand what I’m saying,” he said, patting the arm of my frock coat, and turning the conversation to cheese.

This post is dedicated in loving memory to Chip Gilliam

Until then, catch up on the previous adventures of Jack the Vampire.

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July 5, 1874
London, England

{Part 4 of The Blood Family Alexandrovinov}

I was in a garden, around three in the morning, waiting for the homeless man. Well, philosophically speaking, I’m not sure you could call him homeless. For, he had been calling the spot under a tree in the garden a home for a few weeks now. I fully expected him to stumble home any time now, and when the figure did approach, I was so starved and impatient I jumped him before he had a chance to fall asleep.

“Ha! I knew it, I knew it!” a voice said, and I ceased my biting and climbed off of the figure, in shock. “I knew you would still be hunting down that homeless man. There are easier ways of getting drunk, my Jack.”

It was Baron Moore; I recognized his perfume, though I had not until this point tasted it.

“Don’t be upset though, you won me another bet. Keep it up, I’ll need the money.”

He seemed on the rather dandier side of his moods, but one never knows how long it will last. It was my personal belief that the Baron always reflected the current weather in Ireland. I mentioned how chipper he looked.

“Jack, my boy, that’s because I’m in love. I should introduce you.”

“I know, already, I met her,” I said. Only last week, the Baron had started an intrigue with one of the members of the Warlock Council, which is sort of like having an affair with a Russian novel heroine, except more depressing.

“No, No, that’s not her. But it does remind me, I wonder what I should do about that. Oh, never mind, It will come to me.” By this point, we were walking on the street, and I was beginning to feel very weak, a sure sign of Hunger. “Jack, she’s the most alluring and charming woman I’ve ever met. I was walking behind a lone man on the Strand, you see, and was about to attack when suddenly, almost out of thin air, a man clothed in sweeping cape and top hat was clinging to him, and him all limp. He turned, and I saw it was actually a very beautiful woman. She then apologized for barging in, having not noticed I was on the hunt, you see. She then smiled and introduced herself, Constantine Nickahooliayich Michahiasnooglea Petravonasomething.”

I nodded at him, though couldn’t find the strength or inspiration to answer him that he was probably referring to an Alexandrovinov–I had heard the entire family was now in town.

“Jack, how she glided into the night and descended on that frightened mouse, Jack, how fast she lashed her fangs, how natural into the darkness she disappeared.

“She sounds like a series of small wild animals.”

We had come under a strret lamp, and for the first time, the Baron turned and took a good look at me. “Jack, are you alright!??”

I had recently been tackling a few very important questions, and the questions were winning. The first was whether or not there was a Christian God and/or general God of sorts. The second was how the answer to this question would determine my recently-developed hunger for human blood. For instance, if there was no Christian God, did this mean the few moments of life given to us are so much more precious, because they are all we have? If there was a Christian God, did it mean that if I murdered someone, I was giving them an earlier train ticket to heaven? The result was that I practically starved myself and lived off of anyone unconscious and drunk in the East-End.

“I think my liver hurts,” I mumbled.

It was around this point in the conversation I stumbled and fell to the ground. Couldn’t seem to walk anymore, you see. I noticed a suspicious man disappear into the shadows, and hunger told me I had enough energy to chase him.

“No, no, I won’t allow it.” The Baron said, reading the thoughts across my face. “You’ll make me lose my bet.” He walked over to the corner, I heard a few muffled squeels, and the Baron reappeared and dragged me into the alley.

{This was Part 4 of The Blood Family Alexandrovinov}

July 4, 1874
London, England

{Part 3 of The Blood Family Alexandrovinov}

Ms. Earnshaw insisted I ride with them from the station back into Kensington, and her Vis-a-vis carriage was such that it gave me an opportunity to gaze at the new scenery, which I must admit I liked very much; as far as scenery went, Kitty Earnshaw was along the lines of a southern French countryside. Fresh, vibrant, sunny, moderately temperate, breezy, and she had a relaxed and childish smile, the sort that makes one feel they are walking barefoot through plush grass.

She was dressed in the height of French fashion, but wore her dress rather than letting her dress wear her (the latter being a common mistake with young women in the social season.)

The one thing that didn’t become her, I’m afraid to admit, was Gilfred, the river bass in a high collar on the seat next to her. Sure, he was physically robust and accomplished (I gathered he spent some time in a regiment), and obviously handsome. But though I saw her physical and social equal in him, I did not at all see in him her equal in life-force, for lack of better word. Her equal in presence.

At one point he puffed up his nostrils and stuck out his jaw at me. However, considering I had been mentally comparing his wife-to-be to a French Countryside for the previous twenty minutes, it was understandable.

“Oh, it was awful,” Kitty suddenly said, grabbing Ms. Earnshaw’s hand. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you until now. The most dreadful thing happened on the train ride from Dover! A man’s body was pulled from under the train.”

“My dear, what?” Ms. Earnshaw said, rising to the end of her seat.

“At Maidstone. No one knows how he got there, by which I mean, no one saw him jump under the train. And what is terribly firghtful, is I had met the man!”

Her face and Ms. Earnshaw’s were now only a few feet away from each other, despite being on different sides of the carriage.

“When we were at Dover, you see; he peaked in to ask if we had any seats left in our box. He seemed a gentle enough fellow, but we were full. He must have gotten out at Maidstone, and fallen, or threw himself, the poor soul.”

She brought her handkerchief out when excitement suddenly soured into a terrible reflection of the fresh memory. At that moment, she seemed strangely squished in the corner of the carriage.

“Darling, are you alright?” Gilfred asked. (I never do understand why this statement is so often thrown about when it’s obvious the party questioned is not. That’s not to say I know of anything better to put in it’s place, mind you.)

“I saw the body,” she said, though she mumbled it so silently it took a moment to piece out the words. “I didn’t tell you, I…”

“Sweet Mary,” he said. She turned to Gilfred, but didn’t look at him.

“When I told you about it, in the train, it wasn’t just because I had heard…I saw him…”

“It’s all my fault,” he said, his hand on hers. “I should have escorted you at the station. You would have never had to set eyes on it.”

Ms. Earnshaw shifted slightly in her seat. Kitty hid her face in her handkerchief for another moment, and the sound of the hooves on the street seemed to rise in volume to a deafening level. Kitty looked at the floor of the carriage. No, no, through the floor of the carriage.

“He was so pale. I had no idea one’s face could be so pale after such a thing.”

Well, I guess it surprised me too. I haven’t seen many railroad train victims, but I do imagine blood would be a big part of the overall theme. I didn’t say so at the time, of course. I just nodded my head with gravity.

“You know what’s so strange? After I saw him, and I went back to the carriage, I couldn’t help but think, if I had known how sad he was, we would have made room. In our box with us, you know.” She forced a laugh from herself, shook her head and brightened her eyes. “Oh, well, it is simply a reminder, isn’t it? Happy the man who calls today his own!”

“There, there. That’s the Kitty I know,” Gilfred said. He smirked and patted her hand.

“Indeed,” Ms. Earnshaw said, and, by the light of the passing street lamps, I could see she had a smile on her face that, being next to her, was close enough for me to make out, but would have not reached the other side of the carriage.

Upon arrival at Earnshaw manor, I had a late night tea where Kitty and I swapped growing- up stories while Gilfred sat in a chair looking stuffed. I then excused myself and made my way into the darkness.

I avoided my kind the next few nights because, as I usually did after spending an evening with mortals. The way Kitty had never met death before struck me, and something deep inside me was ringing for the nest few nights, and I needed to retreat and allow that ringing note to last as long as possible, to allow nothing to dampen it.

What I am trying to say, diary, is that my soul was oddly cleansed in experiencing death for the first time with her. Unlike, say, when I talk with Baron Moore, and he mentions the recent practical jokes he has played with dismembered arms.

{The end of Part 3 of the Blood Family Alexandrovinov}

The story described in today’s journal entry is a standalone story, but also Part 2 of the Blood Family Alexandrovinov collection. — M.B.

{Part 2 of The Blood Family Alexandrovinov}

The first time I heard the name Alexandrovinov, it was in regards to Smekov Alexandrovinov, an import from Petersburg, Russia. He had come town mysteriously a few months ago and is one of those birds who doesn’t speak, just sort of glares intensely, and everyone assumes he understands everything about the world because he never says a word to prove otherwise.

The only words anyone had ever heard him say were “I am only visiting briefly, and would appreciate it if no one would bother over me; please pretend I am not here.”

So of course, all anyone ever talked about was him, especially theories on who he was and what he was doing on the island. Many people were even thinking of offering him a position in the Warlock Council as a minister of Russian Affairs, since the post had been vacant for over fifty years. The previous minister, it was believed, had met his end when Napoleon sunk his ship in daylight, a loose-loose situation for our kind.

So, having heard nothing but talk of this character, imagine my amazement when tonight, for the first time, he actually introduced himself to me, though it was purely by accident that I met him, and would I wish it were otherwise.

You see, I had woken up at twilight and was taking my usual walk, when a voice came at me from a horse. It wasn’t the horse talking, of course, but a lady in the coach behind it, whom I recognized as my good friend, the breathing Ms. Earnshaw.

She was on her way to pick up her young cousin, Kitty Earnshaw, whom she was to chaperon during the season. She asked if I would join her, it being her usual way to cast aside the social objections to having a bachelor in her carriage, and I tipped my hat and lept up the foot hold and into the coach. Ms. Kitty’s train, I was told, would be arriving from Dover on the platform upon the eight o’clock hour.

At the station, I escorted Ms. Earnshaw through the multitudes until we came face to face with a dashed attractive looking girl, hooked arm and arm to a fellow who, though sporting the equivalent male traits, blew it all by taking on the expression of a taxidermied mongoose.

Introductions were made, at which point Kitty announced the mongoose as her new fiance, Gilfred.

“That’s strange, it sounded as if she said your name was Gilfred.” I said.

“It is.” He said.

“Sounds like a combination of Gilbert and Wilfred, doesn’t it?”

“I know.” he said, with a stiff upper lip, and awkwardness silently appeared and urinated on the trouser leg. Aside from the name not sounding quite right, it also had the effect of making me think he looked less like a mongoose, and more like a lake trout.

At this moment, a “Mr. Thriftwood!” rang out, except it was pronounced “Meeshta” and “Zreeftvood” instead of the usual.

I turned, and became pale upon seeing the tall, silent figure of Smekov Alexandrovinov approach.

“Oh, I apologize,” he said, with a start. “I have interrupted.” And the word “interrupted” looked like it took a great deal of tonsil work to say, and he did so humbly, without any acknowledgment at what he had accomplished.

“Oh, no, sir.” Ms. Earnshaw said. “Please, introduce us to your friend, Jack, I hear so much about them but never get to meet one.”

Well, you can understand my predicament. Ms. Earnshaw had no idea what my night life was in reality, she simply thought I was not much of a morning person. And I didn’t know if Smekov was smart enough or considerate enough to keep our secret.

“First, I must introduce myself to him,” Smekov said. “I am friend of friend, you see.”

“Ah,” she said, and I noticed that Kitty couldn’t take her eyes off the man. I wasn’t the only one who noticed, and soon Gilfred was stammering to remind her he was present.

At that moment, a porter came up to him and said his furniture had arrived. “Direct from Russia, family heirlooms.” he said, and bowed. “I’m sorry to part such lovely company; perhaps I may meet you and talk with you all again? Mr. Thriftwood, Misses Earnshaw.” He kissed the hands of both Ms. Earnshaws, and all while Gilfred began to turn red around the neck.

We saw him again as we left the train station, supervising the careful handling of giant crates into a fleet of carriages. I would soon find out these were not just the Alexandrovinov family heirlooms; but the Alexandrovinov family itself.

***
{Part 2 of The Blood Family Alexandrov}

[This is a post found in a journal specifically titled "The Most Strange Mystery of the Blood Family Alexandrovinov," which will be noted in the title of each post belonging to it. ALL OF THESE POSTS ARE SELF-CONTAINED STORIES, so you don't have to read them all to enjoy them.--M.B.]

July 3, 1874
London, England

All mortals are mortal for the same reason. Every immortal is immortal for a different reason.

Take my great friend, Baron Moore, for instance. A few nights after I had first met him, we were sitting with a pub table when a fellow biter had asked him how he had come to be bitten. Moore told him it was the result of a rather misplaced trust with a gypsy woman he had fallen in love with. A few weeks later, he told another group of biters that it was while in Italy, and the reason why he allowed himself to be bit was because he had wanted to prove to himself God didn’t exist–or that if he did, He was an idiot–for no deity in their right mind would make someone like him immortal. At a party another fortnight away, I watched in awe as he told an entirely different story–he had become one of us in Ireland, in order to insure he found the love of his life while still in his prime. I have since heard several other stories, even one including a goat that I can’t repeat here in good conscious, even if, as he claims, the nun didn’t seem to mind at the time.

And none of them were true–I know this only because the Baron I saw was not the Baron everyone else saw, though I don’t know why this was and why I know it to be true. The reasons he gave for being bitten made sense to those who asked–they only saw the passionate, moody, confident Baron Moore, more storm than human.

But when brooding grimaces curved into smiles at the edges, or when his frivolous jokes soured slightly with an almost invisible passion, I was able to occasionally peek behind the curtain, and there an actor stood.

And yet, I think he was an actor far greater than the parts he played, and what is more, I believe he knew that I knew, and appreciated I knew it, and thus left the curtain open a crack when I was around. (Of course, I could be crazy, and this was all part of his act. But that’s too much for me to begin to consider at the moment.)

Or take, for instance, another man who has been on mind mind a great deal recently: Dmitrievitch Mikhaylovich Nikolayevich Alexandrovinov. He was an older man when he and his family were first bitten and turned into our kind, and at the time was a wealthy landowner near Petersburg, Russia. He is recently the talk of the underworld owing to his gloomy and tragic death, which I will describe in its proper place. I happen to know a great deal about it, having been somewhat wrapped up in the whole proceeding myself, and being on particularly good terms with the cat involved.

Until I met the Alexandrovinovs, I knew almost nothing about Russia, except that for some reason I imagined it was all in black and white, like a tintype photograph. I was haunting London, tackling my own mental monsters and having a difficult time coming to terms with my place in the darkness, when I first heard the name Alexandrov. Soon after, an entire crypt of Alexandrovs had descended on the neighborhood, and with it, a chill.

{This was part 1 of the Blood Family Alexandrovinov}

[Dear Readers, this is from a scrap of paper found in the chest, one of several. It is obviously part of a lost journal entry.--M.B.]

[?]….but it does not necessarily mean that there is a God.

There is an old myth among my kind that the medieval law of Sanctuary still holds true for us. That, basically, if you’re in a church, you are free from harm. Hunters apparently did not attack our kind if we were in church, unless of course we were feeding upon the reverend. What I and everyone else have always believed is that they merely waited till we stepped outside again. Whether all of this is true or not, I cannot say. I’ve never known one of my kind to have enough faith to try it.

I did hear a story once of a biter named Magthar the Reaper. He was being chased by a Vrothgae hunter named Elder Cadfael Lynch, who finally caught up with him in France.

Magthar, being chased down a muddy street, slipped and fell, and would have been decapitated on the spot if the Elder also hadn’t slipped at the same spot and mis-swung.

Not having any other choice, Magthar ducked into a nearby chapel. The English hunters at that time didn’t appreciate being dragged to France, and he was feeling particularly ruthless about the situation. The hunter broke down the door of the chapel, threw aside a nun, and started kicking in confessionals, which even then were obvious places for anyone to hide in a cathedral.

Magthar the Reaper was over five hundred years old, in a time when the average life span was what can only be described as full of head injuries. While in the Catherdral, he had found a dark corner, taken off his clothes, and jumped into the frame of a window, assuming the figure of the crucifix.

The story goes he had done this a few times throughout his life, and might have succeeded this time if he hadn’t caught the attention of a gasping nun, who was probably thinking it was a miracle the crucified savior was suddenly sweating and uncircumcised. (So the rumour goes.)

I’ve heard two different endings of the story. In one version, the hunter hears the nun’s gasp and comes to kill Magthar, but is stopped by the nun who throws herself in front of the monster attempting to destroy her miracle. Magthar escapes.

In the other version, the nun tries to protect Magthar, but, suddenly moved to protect the nun, Magthar jumps in front of the hunter and sacrifices himself. The Hunter, having desecrated the holy act of Sanctuary, was given a number of “Hail Mary”s to say until he was forgiven.