Jonathan Harker was frightened. No, frightened was not the word. He was terrified. His last letter had been sent. The 29th of June was drawing to a close and with it, he knew, his life.

Clearly the Count was a lunatic. Something was going on in the castle that he could not explain. He had to escape somehow, leave, run, make it back to England where the world made sense.

He paced, the agitated pattern of his steps matching his frenzied thoughts. An hour and he was no nearer to an answer, he stopped by his desk and sighed, staring out the window at the dark sky. It was cloudy; the stars could not be seen. Only the light of the bright moon broke through.

So wrapped up in his thoughts as he was, he did not take notice of a rather sudden chill in the air, nor the mist creeping in over the floor, and completely ignored the tingling sensation on the back of his neck that warned him of watching eyes.

Therefore, he was completely unprepared for the soft, silky voice that spoke from behind him.

"It is indeed a beautiful moon. It is no wonder you should wish to gaze upon it." Restraining his urge to jump, he instead turned his head to watch the Count, not too surprised that he had not heard the man come in. No doubt the Count had been watching him intensely, but now his gaze looked over Jonathan's head, staring at the moon as though it had all the answers.

He began to step forward to the window, eyes still fixed on something outside of it, and as he did, Jonathan took a step or two back, away from the dangerous man. Whether or not the Count noticed his movement, he said nothing. Reaching the window, the Count laid his hand on the edge and smirked softly.

"You are no doubt wondering, Jonathan Harker, what the strange happenings inside these walls mean, yes?" Jonathan said nothing, letting his silence answer the question. "Well, I am sorry you may not leave to-night, and this is the first answer you will receive. Because you see, my friend, you are not leaving at all."

Jonathan stood, rooted to the spot in shock and horror, he had known, yes, that it was likely he would never leave, but to have it spoken so simply and bluntly!

"The Brides," the Count continued, still not looking at Harker, who felt confusion and terror grip him with equal strength, "wish to have you for themselves. I have told them they have to-morrow, for I own to-night. They believe me. They believe because they think I feel nothing but what they do. They could never understand

"That is why, Jonathan Harker, they will not have you to-morrow night, nor any other, you belong to me." The Count raised his head, sticking his chin out with stubborn determination and clenching the rock below his hand tightly. "You always will."

Then the basilisk eyes were finally turned upon him, wild, blazing- hungry. A shiver slipped its way down his spine, clawing at him in a way that on his Christian soul he would never admit to.

The Count smirked at his captive's fear, exposing overly-sharp incisors, and with a sudden flash of insight, Jonathan knew. Those teeth were made for biting into their owner's prey. Images rushed past his eyes. The fair-haired devil in an angel's skin, bending over his neck- the Count's reaction to the slight cut under his chin… It was so startlingly clear that he couldn't make sense of it for a moment.

He was food.

But- oh!- the demon was moving closer now, robes trailing on the floor, now bereft of the eerie mist. And though Jonathan knew that his reaction was to be his end- to stay was to perish- no limb in his body seemed to work correctly. He should have been yelling, screaming, but his throat had closed up. He should have been running, but his legs were weighed down- useless. He should have been fighting for his life, but his arms hung limp, disconnected, almost, in the numbness that overtook him as those eyes- now gleaming red in their hunger- pinned him down.

And then, as the Count drew nearer, those eyes were raking over his form, appraising him in a way he had never expected to see, but before his jumbled mind could make any sense of it, the Count was suddenly so close that their noses were nearly touching. For a moment, Jonathan was sure his heart had stopped out of plain fear, but as it resumed its frantic helter-skelter pace, he wished fervently it would have stayed that way- that he could be spared.

A gasp escaped him as the Count's teeth and lips touched the line of his jaw, and he would've surely flinched back were it not for the arms of steel suddenly on his upper arms, holding him tightly in place.

The lips paused as they met his neck, and for a moment he wondered how much this demon was enjoying this- torturing his victim, listening to their frail heartbeat as he knew he was about to end it…

But this train of thought ended abruptly, as there simply wasn't anymore room for thought as the Count moved again, one hand caressing his cheek as the other arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer, lips ghosting over the source of his pulse.

And suddenly Jonathan wasn't quite aware of himself anymore- everything was lost in a blur of thought that was swept away by a deep and powerful need which he couldn't place, and which seemed to have overtaken him without his consent. With a sigh, he stretched his head into the Count's hand, giving more access to the tender and sensitive skin on his neck.

It wasn't until this action was met with a deep chuckle and teeth pressing against his skin that he realized his mistake. His half-lidded eyes flew open with an urgent need for escape, but it was too late, for the two sharp points were suddenly digging into his veins as the steel trap around him enclosed him further, drawing him closer that he had ever thought possible.

But this was lost to him as he was struck by the feeling of his blood leaving his veins, and with a strangled moan his knees were buckling under the pain. He wasn't sure if anything was supporting him, but there must have been something, as he wasn't aware of hitting the floor, and those terrible lips never left his neck, his view was hazy, his ears filled with a soft buzzing as his heartbeat grew fainter and fainter. There wasn't any fear anymore, only dim acceptance of his fate as more of his life slipped away and his vision darkened…

He wasn't entirely sure how long he had been out, but it couldn't have been long, as when he opened his eyes, the room; from what he could see of it, still in the Count's arms; was just as dark, lit softly by moonlight. He was gently brought to his feet, where he swayed though the strong limbs were still around him. He was weak, fatigued, dizzy. For a minute or two he simply stood, blinking, trying to hold onto the last shred of self-confidence he had as he gathered his remaining strength.

Finally as the arms tightened around him again, he lifted his head and looked straight into the face of the Count, reeling back, shock and horror overtook him at once as he registered the lips and teeth, bared in a feral grin, tinged red, as red as those eyes which still glazed with insatiable hunger, fear stole upon him, dread eating away at him as those teeth moved close, no doubt for a second course, finishing off the meal. Closer- closer- closer- he couldn't make sense of anything- something was off in the situation this time, but he couldn't think anymore-

It was belatedly he realized, as those lips touched his, that the hunger might be for something different this time- a lust for the flesh, not the blood.

The Count's kiss was devouring. It seemed that those lips and tongue had a passionate need for everything about Jonathan's mouth, and he could only stand there, shocked and slightly limp, as it was thoroughly ravaged, only dimly aware of forceful hands pushing him backwards and pulling at his clothes.

His knees buckled again as their backs met with the edge that he distantly knew must be the bed, and he was sitting, being pushed fluidly backwards to land on the sheets, lidded eyes observing the Count standing at the edge of the bed with his shirt in one hand, half-ripped in the hurry to get if off of Jonathan's skin. But there was hardly a pause to breath before the offending article was tossed to the floor, and the Count was on him again, avidly exploring the newly exposed flesh before him.

The lips and hands were nearly too much for Jonathan as he lay there in a haze of pleasure he could never have imagined before. There was no space for any reasonable thought, or for any words that could not be communicated through variously pitched moans.

But then the teeth were out, and a sudden burst of pain on his stomach made him gasp as the sharp incisors cut a long line into his skin. Gently, he tipped his head so he could see the Count on him, watching his flushed, panting face, before the red eyes flicked to the cut he had made, the blood it had exposed. Then, his own lustful gaze on Jonathan's questioning one, the Count dipped his head and slowly dragged his tongue across the wound.

Throwing his head back with a moan, Jonathan arched up in pleasure, his hands clenching the sheets around him. He'd never thought it was possible to feel like this, not even with Mina-

But all thought of his far-off fiancée vanished as the Count, in light of this new discovery, began to use it advantageously- nipping and licking until Jonathan felt that he could explode.

And then it stopped. Panting, he opened his eyes to see what had happened. Then hands were tugging at his breeches, the Count finally deciding to give attention to his lower half, where Jonathan knew his manhood was rock-hard, aching with the need for attention.

But as the pleasure had stopped, thought began to enter his brain as his breathing evened out a bit. His mind was foggy, however- he knew he had lost too much blood but couldn't bring himself to care, apart from in a small, hidden part of him whose voice was growing steadily fainter, which tried to remind him of his home, his beliefs, his Mina… But that voice was crushed as a hand brushed his throbbing erection, because God, nothing could feel this good

No. god had no place there, and for a moment, as those hands were gone, finally pulling his breeches down, there was a brief clarity in his mind- and the voice was triumphant, for he knew this was wrong- wrong- wrong- he had to escape- he couldn't want this

But then the hands were moving again, nails scraping against the skin on his inner thighs, and he was lost again, lost in a never-ending sea of pleasure where he couldn't tell whose sighs were whose, whose hands were where; in a place where he could no longer tell self from other- and as it built to a tumultuous crescendo, the Count's lips were on his again, exchanging a liquid he could neither identify nor care about, because he'd never felt nor imagined anything remotely like this in his entire life, and he wanted to savor every instant….

And though it was over far too soon' thought when he opened his eyes after the last arc of pleasure, the Count was gone; he lay awake after for longer than he probably should've, head tilted into the pillow as he remembered every wave of pleasure.

And with the lingering feelings of that climax, he was numb- unable to feel the terror or revulsion he should've, nor the want to escape. Unable to feel the slight tingling pain through his veins as he changed.

No, Jonathan Harker's last thoughts before he surrendered to the emptiness of sleep were of the coppery, metallic taste left in his mouth, and the crimson stain where his lips touched the sheets.