445 Barovian Calendar, Barovia

The sun had set only moments before, but the door to the village hospice was already closed fast and locked for the night. I gave it hardly a thought and putting boot to wood kicked it open with a stunning crash. One or two people of the dozen there yelped with terror as they all came to their feet, turning to face me as I strode in. A few unconsciously made holy signs against me, but true faith is now a rare thing in Barovia, so I felt little or nothing of it.

"Where is she?" I demanded.

They were already white-faced from my sudden appearance, for no one ventures out after dark here, and anyone who does is exactly the sort one would not wish to encounter. It was obvious no one wished to encounter me as my gaze swept over them.

"If-if you please, your lordship-" began one of the men, shaking from head to toe as he came hesitantly forward, hands out in a placating manner.

This did not bode well. "I do not please. Where is she?"

His eyes rolled up in his head, and he fainted right at my feet.

With some disgust, for cowards have ever revolted me, I fixed my gaze on an older woman behind him. "Where?"

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She left off wringing her hands and pointed, trembling, at a curtained alcove at the far end of the long low building that served as a communal shelter for the homeless in the village.

Tears. Gods and shadows together, please-not again!

Five long steps and I was there, throwing the curtain back, staring down at what was left of her.

Behind me some gasped; others sobbed, not in grief for her, certainly, but in fear of what I would do to them.

For the moment I could do nothing, think nothing, as the all-too-familiar agony washed over and through me once more. I stood unable to move for a very long time, staring at her sweet face, her sweet lovely face in the final repose that only the truly dead know.

In this life she had been known as Alina, an orphan raised with others in the village. Her true name, though she had not known it-not known it until I had come along and begun my courtship of her-was Tatyana. Finding her alive again had been my greatest joy, awakening her hidden memories of her past life my greatest pleasure.

I had fallen in love with her almost a hundred years ago when I had walked free and breathing in the sunlight. She had been betrothed to my younger brother Sergei, and thought herself in love with him until the night of their wedding, the night when I had bargained away all that I had, all that I was, so that I might have her for my own.

That night my brother had died by my hand, his blood running like living fire in my veins. That night I had gone to her and touched her with true passion, given her a glimpse of what real love could be, but in her inexperience the intensity of it had frightened her, and she had retreated into the safe memory of Sergei.

She had run away. Some have said it was from me, because of what I had become, but she had gone mad with grief from Sergei's death and threw herself from the castle balcony which overlooked the valley below. It had been full of mist. I had watched it silently swallow her frail white-clad form and wished for death to swiftly visit me as well.

But despite the best efforts of my enemies I had not died. I had survived while they perished. I had survived to exist, but not to live. Never again to live. Not until decades later when I recognized the face and form of my Tatyana born once more into the world did a semblance of life returned to my soul.

She was then a village orphan adopted by a lecherous burgomaster looking to make her his wife; they had called her Marina, but I had known her true identity. Before I could take her away to her rightful place at my side, the bastard had murdered her. With my bare hands I had executed him. Far too quickly, but I'd been too incensed to think clearly else I would have given him a full measure back of the pain he'd given to me.

My hope for ever having happiness dead, I had returned to my cold castle, and continued existing- until years later when Alina had appeared.

I found her again by accident while making an inspection round of Barovia in the guise of Lord Vasili von Hoist. My own name was ever too much for the locals. Lord Vasili was a man to be feared, but his lesser rank did not paralyze them with terror as did the vastly greater presence of the actual lord of Barovia.

Alina had been one of the serving girls at a welcoming supper in my honor, hosted by the burgomaster and his wife. Such social rituals are occasionally a necessary evil for people of rank. I suffered through them as a means of getting to know those who collected my taxes, to make sure they were being honest about it. I was ever careful to claim a digestive upset and did not partake of the food. Alina, not knowing any better, had come by to ask if I wanted wine.

One word of her soft voice, the briefest glimpse of her face, and I knew.

After that I had little memory of the rest of the evening, just a vague idea that I'd scandalized them all by insisting Alina sit next to me and plying her with the choicest delicacies their table had to offer. The burgomaster's wife had been plainly outraged, but had not dared say a word. Perhaps she'd expected me to take the girl away for some base trysting later, but I was as the perfect gentleman and parted company with but a chaste kiss on the back of Alina's slender hand. She'd been quite overwhelmed by this unexpected attention from a lord, but at the same time shyly interested.

I had paid court to her for a week at the humble hospice, very proper, and with a watchful chaperone at hand. Of course, I had always made sure to put that chaperone into a soothing slumber for the duration of my visits and thus could I freely speak with Alina-or Tatyana as I began to call her during these private moments.

Gradually, with some hypnotic prompting from me, she had begun to remember who she had been. I was the happiest of all creatures for that week. My love had come back to me and nothing would take her away. I felt alive, invincible, and all things were made possible again.

But men in love are ever fools with their assumptions.

When I woke this night the sense of her presence within me was gone. True, it was but a tenuous thing, for I hadn't dared to partake of her blood lest some idiot harm her as the last time. Our link was more of the sort all lovers share, and as consciousness returned to me with the departure of the sun I was instantly aware something was horribly wrong.

Leaving one of my daylight sanctuaries-a sturdy box hidden beneath the earth in the village cemetery- I had rushed to the hospice to find out what had happened, half in hope and half in dread of what I would find.

All my glorious expectations, all my optimism for the future lay dead before me.

Dust and ashes.

The older woman hesitantly came near. I finally looked up at her.

"How?" I asked. My voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"She woke this morning with a fever, lord. I'm the healer for the village, and they called me right away, knowing you would wish it."

"A fever?"

"It did not seem too serious; I gave her my usual herbs for such things, but there was no improvement by noon. I questioned her whether she'd eaten anything to upset her or had been bitten by an insect. Sometimes when the stingflies are bad they can bring on a mild sickness, but this was like nothing I'd ever seen before."

"Go on."

"She worsened as the afternoon wore on, became delirious. I sent several of the lads up the mountain to bring down ice to cool her, but nothing helped. She slipped away about an hour ago. I am sorry."