Sommer Steppe, The Garden. The year without a summer. - October 12, 1777.

Viscount Frederick Grace stood beneath the shelter of a tall apple tree, rain bleeding through the leaves above him while he watched and waited. The air was scented by rain, grass, and autumn wildflowers. He could feel the ground beneath him, sense something vibrant and rich leaching out of the soil.

A mound of fresh earth in front of Frederick stirred. Fingers raw with blood and soil poked through first. Packed as fresh as new bread, she tore it apart easily; the rain spilling over her hand, then arm and elbow, made quick work of the mud in thick rivulets over her flesh. This was how Victoria Moore climbed, mindless, from her week-old grave in the garden.

Later, she would not remember stumbling in the soiled rags of her nightgown through the night towards the man awaiting her. Only a vague shadow of something would prod at her mind; the image of a pale wrist offered and taken greedily. A sharp and self-satisfied smile. A soothing word or two that did little if anything to quell the aching pain in her body and stomach.

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That same night, a storm the likes of which hadn’t been seen in nine years tore the roof from the stable. The cook muttered prayers over a bowl of scalding soup. Perhaps most curious of all, every leaf on that apple tree withered and died. Every apple fell, empty and darkened husks. Life for life. Death reborn came at a cost. The very soil surrounding her grave would be poison to anything that dwelled within it now. Even the earthworms and insects below were now desiccated remnants.

“You will come to enjoy this life, dear,” her maker and her monster told her, tilting his head just so to watch the feral young woman feed from him. He was unphased by the rain soaking the both of them through, plastering fabric and hair to flesh. He didn’t flinch when her teeth bit deeper, grinding into muscle and bone.

They were harbingers of death for the sleeping residents of Sommer Steppe. He would see to it. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, he’d been a little impatient, but he was anxious to lay claim to his new home and he needed to work quickly.

It was with no small effort that the Viscount managed to pry his arm from the newly-made creature’s grasp. The astonishing strength of a newborn would never cease to amuse and amaze him.

“Now, now,” he chided, taking Victoria’s arm into his and pulling her along through the gardens, “save some room for supper, love.” His pace was a leisurely one, while hers was more of a shamble, but her body had no other options but to be led by him. Soon she would regain her senses, but it would take blood. Lots of it.