They sat around the pitiful campfire and ate in silence.

On previous nights, even when the weather had been this bad, they’d entertained themselves with story and song. Had even allowed Peter to teach them a few hymns.

But on this night, hardly a word was uttered.

John nodded as Peter took his plate and set to wiping it clean.

Behind them, the wagon remained where it was. They’d been unable to move it more than a few turns before it had sunk again. The beasts were unhitched and rested now beneath a few trees. One, bolder than the others, shifted closer to the fire and slumped with its head near George’s hip.

Usually, George would reach out and pat the shaggy head.

Not this night.

The three men who’d seen her glanced often to the coffin. Soft pitter of rain bouncing off the lacquered lid. A constant reminder of its presence even when they weren’t looking at it.

Not that they needed one.

When they finally moved to their bedrolls inside one of the wagons, they still didn’t speak. They slid beneath their blankets and waited for sleep.

After a long day, it should have come easy.

Exhaustion should have triggered their bodies into slumber.

Instead, it was a wrestle against thoughts which frightened them. Frightened because they didn’t know where they came from. Never had they entertained private fantasies of corpses and moonlight.

Revulsion gnawed at their guts, but thoughts continued to rot and fester in their minds. Ashamed, they pleaded to their inner voice to quiet.

To submit to sleep. And to a new day which would hopefully allow haunted minds a chance to purge the evil urges.

John’s dreams were nightmare when they came.

A chain of forbidden desire and rabid violence. He had to run. Had to fight. Was pursued by something which heaved and struggled against him. Claws flashing from the shadows.

Horrific screams cut into his mind.

And, beneath the screaming, the soft laughter of a woman. Laughter which curdled his belly and left him shaking inside with terror and a burning need to please the woman in white who pursued him.

Pale hand.

Porcelain pale.

Sharp fingers reached for his face and brushed against cheek. So cold. Frozen like Winter’s hardest ice.

Her purring voice coiled around his brain like a snake.

Whispering promises.

Promises he knew God would never forgive him for listening to.

But he couldn’t help it.

Couldn’t stop his hand from reaching for hers.

He woke with a rush, bolt upright. Cold forehead and hot sweat reflecting the conflicted emotions which had driven his dreams to their extreme conclusion.

He panted. Shuddered. Wiped his face with the corner of his blanket and waited for the shudders to cease before looking around to see if he’d disturbed the others. Expected them to be watching with big grins on their faces.

Instead, George muttered in his sleep and Peter tossed and turned in silence.

“Dimiti?” The man’s bedroll was empty. “Shit.”

John eased himself from the wagon, moving as quietly as he could.

He was distantly pleased to notice the rain had stopped at last.

Wind still shook the trees, bristling their wet leaves and keeping the forest hush.

The campfire was a sodden mound of ash drowning in mud.

The oxen had shifted back to the road, away from the trees. They weren’t sleeping. Instead, they peered nervously into the dark, bovine eyes fixed on where the crates and coffin were stacked.

Where Dimiti stood, arms rigid at his sides. Fingers loose. Dangling. Almost lifeless.

Staring.

Staring like a heartsick boy at the coffin’s open lid.

Where the woman in white lay with pale white arms across her breasts. White dress gleaming so bright in captured moonlight that it appeared to glow.

“Dimiti?” John shivered as he came up beside the old man. Put his hand on Dimiti’s shoulder. Smell of crisp night air. “Are you alright, mate?”

Slow nod. “I’m fine, John.”

“Why’d you open it up again? It’s not her, you know. Not your wife. You ought to close it.”

Shake of head. “I didn’t, John.”

“Didn’t, what?”

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“Didn’t open it.”

Dread crawled through John’s heart as he asked what he didn’t want to ask; “Well, who did?”

“I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry.”

The scream died in John’s throat even before it began as the pale white face in front of him moved. Red lips curved into a predatory grin and her eyes snapped open to pin him with a ghastly stare.

Beautiful, was all he could think. She was so terrifyingly beautiful.

She climbed from the coffin on limbs which moved like a hunting spider.

“John.” She purred his name, and a warm thrill riddled down his spine. “Would you really do those things to me? Your dreams were quite sinful, weren’t they? What would your God think of them? I know mine would be very pleased.”

Managed to squeak a strangled plea; “Forgive me!”

“There’s nothing to forgive, silly. But if you really mean it, you could do something for me. It’s just a little thing. It would make me so very happy. Would you like to make me happy, John?”

The nod came quicker than he could think. “Yes, Lady. I’d do anything for you. Anything you want.”

“Of course you would. I want you to go to the other wagons and untie my sisters. Hurry, John. You must hurry.”

He shuffled away, brain humming within its seat.

Eyes misted and wet.

He staggered towards the wagon. Whimpering, he struggled against the ropes and tugged at the knots with the frenzy of a man desperate to fulfil a desire which went beyond the mere carnal and entered a realm of the mystic.

Fingers, brittle with cold, worked hard to break the knots. He whimpered with frustration as they resisted.

“John?” Peter called from the wagon, leaning off the edge. Blinking away the remnants of his own cursed dreams. “What’re you doing, John?”

John didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

His throat was constricted and dry.

Couldn’t even work enough moisture to spit.

Didn’t look at Peter.

His eyes focussed on the knots with a determined glare. Then grinned as one came loose. He glanced over his shoulder to where the woman in white stood beside Dimiti and felt a flash of jealousy.

Maybe if he hurried with the knots, she’d stand near him instead.

Stand so close his heart might break.

Renewed vigour sent him rushing to the next rope. But Peter blocked his way. Reached for John’s hand. “John? Stop-”

The punch sent Peter wheeling into the mud.

He landed with a splash and groan, but John didn’t pause.

Peter had tried slowing him down!

Couldn’t the fool understand? He had to please the Lady. Had to get the ropes free.

He wrenched hard. Fingers darting into the knot and pulling.

Moan escaped lips.

He was going too slow.

Cursed old hands. Gnarled hands. Already strained and sore.

Peter looked up, rubbing his chin. And finally saw her.

Opened his mouth.

Screamed; “Demon!”

His hand dove into his shirt, hunting for his crucifix.

It was George who hit him again.

From behind. With a lump of wood.

Then dropped his makeshift weapon in the mud beside the dying man before shambling toward her, face alight with awe.

“My Lady,” he murmured. “My Lady, I’ll do anything for you.”

John wept.

The knots were too tight!

They wouldn’t give.

He looked over his shoulder. George was getting close to her.

She was reaching for him.

Her pale fingers touched his.

“No,” he growled. “Touch me, Lady. Touch me instead.”

He found strength from somewhere inhumanly deep. The knot gave and the rope slithered free. It dropped like a dead adder at his feet.

“Lady,” he called. Turned and staggered toward her. “Lady, I’ve done it. Done what you asked. Please, Lady…”

He couldn’t bear to put it into words.

And, by the smile which crawled across her unearthly face, knew he didn’t need to.

“You did very good, John. I’m very pleased.”

Pride made him drop onto his knees in front of her. He stared up at her like a hound. Adoration making his eyes bulge. Begging for her attention.

Pale hand.

Porcelain hand.

Finally reached out and touched his cheek.

Just like in the dream, it was icy cold. So cold he sucked a breath and exhaled mist.

The cold went right through bone. He contorted his body as the absolute pleasure of her frozen touch hit like lightning.

Hair standing on end, he lifted his chin and saw her lips part.

Saw the fangs.

“Vasilja,” a voice called. “What’s going on?”

“It wasn’t my fault, Hailwic. You told them not to touch our coffins, didn’t you? You told them that?”

“I did.”

“Well, they obviously didn’t want to listen to you. They broke mine. Look at it. I’ll need a very good carpenter to fix it again. And there aren’t many of them out here, are there? I’m very cross right now.”

Another voice, cruel and youthful. Like slivered glass. “I want to bite them. But I don’t know which to bite first.”

“Well, that’s easy, Senka. This dull-looking young man here is for you.” She rubbed her fingers through George’s hair. “This is George. Look at him. He has eyes just like one of those cows.”

“They’re oxen,” Senka said. She hovered above the mud. Pale white dress falling below her feet “Not cows.”

“Well, I wasn’t to know. I was never a milkmaid.”

“I was not a milkmaid!” Senka flew across the mud, rearing in front of Vasilja. Whipped to a halt, eyes glowering bright. “I don’t know why you keep saying that!”

“Which one is mine?” Hailwic floated down from her wagon. Looking from man to man. “They all look miserable.”

“You can have the one on the ground. His name is Peter. He has a crucifix. You always like killing the holy boys.”

“What about me? I want one with a crucifix.” Senka snatched at George and spun him around. Quick fingers delving into his pockets. “You have one, don’t you? You must have one, George. Where’s your crucifix? Did you leave it in your other coat? Go get it.”

The young man looked to Vasilja, who nodded. “Answer her, George. She asked you a question. It’s rude not to answer.”

“Please, Miss, I don’t have one, Miss. My pa never believed in the Jesus.”

Senka tossed him aside. “It’s not fair, Vasilja. I want one with a crucifix.”

“Well, I’m afraid you can’t. Not just yet. There was only one of them here. And Hailwic has him now. Besides, I don’t think you want that one anyway. George hit him a little too hard on the head, I think. He’s not going to wake up again. He’ll be very boring for you, but Hailwic won’t mind.”

“George hit him too hard?” Senka rounded on the young man, who shrank back into the mud with a squeak. “So, it’s his fault I can’t have the one with the crucifix?”

“Well, you can look at it that way if it makes you feel any better.”

“I want to bite you, George.”

Peter stirred. Legs skidded in the mud as he looked up into Hailwic’s calm gaze.

Sucked a breath.

And screamed.

The vampire didn’t seem to notice. Planted one hand on his forehead and the other on his shoulder. Pinning him to the muddy ground as he thrashed and tried to work himself free.

She raised her head.

Looked to the dark clouds above.

Then brought her mouth down with a wolfish snap, tearing a hole in the side of his throat. Pulled with savage fangs, stripping back skin. Pushed his head down into the mud and wrapped her lips around the gaping wound.

Worked her fangs deeper into flesh.

Chewing.

Back arching as she found the fountain of his life within.

And drank.

Peter’s scream trailed into a wet gurgle.

Senka watched Hailwic and sighed. “I wanted to bite him.”

“You still have George.”

“But that leaves two for you. That’s still not fair.”

“Oh, Dimiti isn’t for me. Someone needs to keep the wagons moving. And that’s you, isn’t it, Dimiti? You can get us to Vienna, can’t you? And then to Munich? You’ll look after our coffins from now on and you’ll guard us when we sleep. Won’t you?”

She ran slender white fingers across the old man’s bristled jaw.

And he nodded. “I will, Lady. I’ll protect you with my life.”

“You see, Senka? We need Dimiti.”

“Then, I can bite George? He’s all mine? I mean, I won’t have to share him or anything?”

“He’s all yours, Senka. I said so, didn’t I?”

Finally satisfied, Senka’s smile grew wide and impish. “Thank you, Vasilja!”

George whined like a frightened dog as the vampire turned. She danced on air and snatched his collar. Dragged him to his feet and hovered in front of him. Pushed her face close and breathed; “Hit me, George. Hit me with all your strength.”

“I can’t, Miss!”

Senka frowned. “Of course you can't. I’m right here in front of you.”