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Flora’s heart pounded as she heard the rapid footsteps approaching her chamber. Closing the old manuscript, she braced herself. “It must be Henry, come to escort me to Charles’s uncle,” she whispered, her curiosity piqued. She imagined the uncle might bear some resemblance to Charles, which would endear him to her immediately.

Tap—tap—tap. The sound of knocking echoed through the chamber. Unlike the fear that gripped her when Henry first brought the manuscript, she now felt a strange resolve, her nerves oddly steady. “Come in,” she called, her voice unwavering. “Come in.”

The door swung open with unnerving swiftness, and a tall, gaunt figure slipped inside, closing it just as quickly. Flora’s attempted scream died in her throat, her body trembling, an icy dread seizing her. There he stood, Sir Ferdinand Lazarus, the vampyre. His sallow face twisted into a hideous smile, his eyes burning with a cold, sepulchral light.

“Flora Bennett,” he intoned, his voice a chilling whisper. “Listen to what I have to say, and listen calmly. You have nothing to fear. Should you scream or call for help, by the depths of hell, you are lost!”

His words, mechanical and devoid of human warmth, sent a shiver down her spine. Flora stepped back, her legs weak, until she found the support of a chair. She grasped it tightly, her mind struggling to comprehend his threat. Yet, it wasn’t his words that silenced her; it was the sheer terror rendering her mute.

“Promise me,” Lazarus demanded. “Promise you will hear what I have to say. No harm will come to you, and my words will bring you peace.”

Flora’s lips moved, but no sound emerged. She was paralyzed, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“You are terrified,” Lazarus said, his impatience barely contained. “But there is no reason. I mean you no harm, despite the harm you have done me. I come to free you from the torment that enslaves your soul.”

A pause hung heavy in the air before Flora, in a barely audible whisper, managed, “Help! Oh, help me, Heaven!”

Lazarus scoffed, his expression one of disdain. “Heaven has no place here. Flora Bennett, if your intellect matches your beauty, you will listen.”

“I—I’ll listen,” she stammered, inching further away, dragging the chair with her.

“Good. You are more composed now.”

Her eyes locked onto his, filled with dread. It was the same face that had haunted her during the stormy night of his first visit. Lazarus met her gaze, his face contorting into a grotesque semblance of a smile.

“You are beautiful,” he said, his voice a mockery of reverence. “The finest sculptor could craft a masterpiece from your form. Your skin is as pure as snow, and your face, a vision of loveliness.”

Flora remained silent, her mind flashing to the night she had fainted. He had seen her then, his demonic eyes taking in her unconscious form.

“You understand me,” Lazarus continued. “Well, let that pass. I still hold a fragment of humanity.”

Flora’s breath caught in her throat as she mustered the courage to confront the intruder. “Speak your errand,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “Or come what may, I will scream for help to those who will not be slow to render it.”

“I know it,” replied Lazarus, his tone unsettlingly calm.

“You know I will scream?” she challenged, her eyes narrowing.

“No,” Lazarus said, his gaze never wavering. “You will hear me out. I know they would rush to aid you, but you will not call for it. I will present to you no necessity.”

“Say on—say on,” Flora urged, her curiosity and fear warring within her.

“You see, I do not attempt to approach you,” Lazarus continued, his voice eerily smooth. “My errand is one of peace.”

“Peace from you! Horrible being, if you are what my appalled imagination dreads to name, wouldn’t even you find absolute annihilation a blessing?”

“Peace, peace,” Lazarus soothed, lifting a hand as if to calm the air itself. “I came not here to debate such matters. I must be brief, Flora Bennett, for time presses. I do not hate you. Why should I? You are young, you are beautiful, and you bear a name that commands some portion of my regard.”

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Flora’s eyes darted to a portrait hanging on the wall. “There is a portrait,” she began.

“No more—no more,” Lazarus interrupted, a flicker of unease crossing his face. “I know what you would say.”

“It is yours.”

“This house and all within it, I covet,” he admitted, his voice tinged with a restless hunger. “Let that suffice. I have quarrelled with your brother—I have quarrelled with one who now fancies he loves you.”

“Charles Holland loves me truly,” Flora retorted, her voice steady with conviction.

“It does not suit me now to dispute that point with you,” Lazarus replied, his tone dismissive. “I possess means of knowing more about the secrets of the human heart than common men. I tell you, Flora Bennett, that he who speaks to you of love loves you not but with the fleeting fancy of a boy. There is one who hides deep in his heart a world of passion, one who has never spoken of love, yet loves you with a depth far surpassing the evanescent fancy of this boy Holland, as does the mighty ocean surpass the most placid lake basking in the idle sun.”

Lazarus’s voice had taken on a melodic quality, his words flowing like a dark, hypnotic symphony. Despite her fear, Flora found herself drawn in, compelled to listen. The horror she felt for him began to wane, replaced by an inexplicable fascination.

“You are mistaken,” she finally said, her voice firm despite her confusion. “On the constancy and truth of Charles Holland, I would stake my life.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” Lazarus replied, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“Have you spoken all that you had to say?” Flora asked, her patience wearing thin.

“No, no,” Lazarus said, shaking his head slowly. “I covet this place. I would purchase it, but having quarrelled with your ill-tempered brothers, they will hold no further converse with me.”

“And well they may refuse,” Flora shot back, her eyes flashing.

“Be that as it may, sweet lady, I come to you to be my mediator. In the shadows of the future, I see many events yet to come.”

“Indeed,” Flora replied, her skepticism evident.

“It is so,” Lazarus continued, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “Borrowing wisdom from the past and resources I would not detail to you, I know that if I have inflicted much misery upon you, I can spare you much more. Your brother or your lover will challenge me.”

“Oh, no, no,” Flora gasped, horror dawning on her.

“I say it will happen,” Lazarus insisted, his eyes boring into hers. “And I can kill either. My skill and strength are superhuman.”

“Mercy! Mercy!” Flora pleaded, her voice breaking as tears welled in her eyes.

In the dim light of the moon filtering through the tattered curtains, Flora’s breath came in shallow gasps. Shadows danced menacingly on the walls of her ancient room, the air thick with a cold, oppressive weight. “I will spare either or both on a condition,” Lazarus murmured, his voice a haunting melody in the gloom.

Flora’s heart pounded as she asked, “What fearful condition?”

“It is not a fearful one,” Lazarus replied, his tone almost soothing. “Your terrors go far beyond the fact. All I wish, maiden, is for you to convince your imperious brothers to sell or let Bennett Hall to me.”

Flora’s eyes widened in surprise. “Is that all?”

“It is,” Lazarus confirmed. “I ask no more, and, in return, I promise you not only that I will not fight with them, but that you shall never see me again. Rest assured, maiden, you will be undisturbed by me.”

“Oh, God! That were indeed an assurance worth striving for,” Flora whispered, a flicker of hope igniting in her chest.

“It is one you may have,” Lazarus said, his voice like a dark promise. “But—”

“Oh, I knew—my heart told me there was yet some fearful condition to come,” Flora interrupted, her dread returning.

“You are wrong again,” Lazarus said, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I only ask of you that you keep this meeting a secret.”

“No, no, no—I cannot,” Flora replied, shaking her head vehemently.

“Nay, what so easy?” Lazarus’s voice was smooth, almost hypnotic.

“I will not; I have no secrets from those I love,” Flora insisted, her resolve firm.

“Indeed, you will find soon the expediency of a few at least; but if you will not, I cannot urge it longer. Do as your wayward woman’s nature prompts you,” Lazarus said, his voice carrying a slight, but unmistakable, edge of aggravation.

As he spoke, he moved from the door towards the window that opened into a moonlit kitchen garden. Flora shrunk back as far as possible, her eyes locked on his every movement. For a few tense minutes, they regarded each other in silence, the room filled with an almost palpable tension.

“Young blood,” Lazarus said, a sinister smile playing on his lips. “It mantles in your veins.”

Flora shuddered with terror, her skin crawling under his gaze.

“Be mindful of the condition I have proposed to you. I covet Bennett Hall,” Lazarus continued, his voice a low, threatening murmur.

“I—I hear,” Flora stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

“And I must have it,” Lazarus said, his eyes burning with an unholy light. “I will have it, although my path to it be through a sea of blood. You understand me, maiden? Repeat what has passed between us or not, as you please. I say, beware of me if you keep not the condition I have proposed.”

“Heaven knows that this place is becoming daily more hateful to us all,” Flora said, her voice quivering.

“Indeed?” Lazarus’s tone was mocking, but there was a keen interest in his eyes.

“You well might know so much. It is no sacrifice to urge it now. I will urge my brothers,” Flora said, her voice gaining a semblance of strength.

“Thanks—a thousand thanks. You may not live to regret having made a friend of Lazarus—” he began.

“The vampyre!” Flora’s voice rose in a terrified crescendo.

Lazarus advanced a step towards her, and she involuntarily screamed. In an instant, his hand clasped her waist with the power of an iron vice. She felt his hot breath on her cheek, and her senses reeled. Gathering all her breath and energy, she let out a piercing shriek and then collapsed to the floor.

There was a sudden crash of broken glass, the fragments glittering in the moonlight, and then all was still.