Sommer Steppe, The Garden. - October 12, 1777.

  Lord Frederick Grace, the Viscount of Wickmouth, leaned against the trunk of an apple tree. Rain bled through the leaves above him. Water mingled with the green of his waistcoat, creating darkened splotches in the silk. Branches above him shivered, rattling with the strength of the growing storm. Browning autumn leaves drifted lifeless to the ground.

  Nearby, Lord Grace’s servant, Aldman, had a shovel at the ready. Just in case something went wrong. He did not have the protection of the apple tree branches, so the rain poured freely over him. The man was gaunt. Haggard. Yet he had the strength to dig a dozen graves if necessary. He had done that very thing, on occasion. His rare smile was the stuff of children’s nightmares.

  Lord Grace resisted the urge to sigh. His fingers played impatiently over a golden pocket watch looped through his breast pocket. He could swear he heard it ticking beneath the sound of the pounding rain. A heady scent of wet grass and autumn wildflowers hung in the air. Yet, there was something beneath that fragrance. Something richer. Darker.

  It was death.

  It was life.

  It was blood.

  A mound of fresh earth in front of them laid quiet. Lord Grace’s lips twitched into a semblance of a smile. He thought, perhaps, this one would fail. So many of them did. The answer as to who would rise and who would not lay somewhere between the veil of life and death. He hadn’t the foggiest notion why. How fickle the gift could be.

  For a moment, Lord Grace considered going inside. The hour was growing late, and nothing had happened yet. It was Aldman’s tensed shoulder and sharp intake of breath that gave the viscount pause. He focused more intently on the mound. The earth was beginning to stir.

  Raw, torn fingers poked through to the surface first, nails lengthened and packed with grime. Her new grave, fresh as baked bread, crumbled away easily even as the rain had begun to create a muddied froth around her. She pulled herself free. Making quick work of it, her arms burst through, dragging the rest of her body to greet the air with a feral energy. Desperate. Starving. She looked up at them both. There was nothing behind her bloodshot eyes but pure, unadulterated hunger. If Aldman’s blood wasn’t rotten, she may have attacked him then and there.

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  The viscount’s smile grew into something genuine, albeit tinged with vicious cruelty.

  “You’ll need a little work,” he said, sizing her up. Deaf to his remark, she crawled towards him, her petticoats and dress completely ruined. Shredded. Muddied. A far cry from the prim and neat maidservant he’d been speaking to the night before last. The kerchief holding back her mane of tangled black braids was nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t remember if Aldman had buried her corpse with it on or not. The whole affair was a blur.

  She was not likely to remember much of tonight. Only a vague shadow of something would prod at her mind; the image of a pale wrist offered and taken greedily. Lord Grace’s glittering fangs. A soothing word or two that did little if anything to quell the aching pain in her body and stomach. She burned with that need. How could she not? They all did.

  Lord Grace tried to recall the finer details of his own rebirth, but he could not. Nothing beyond the corpses he had left in his wake. It had been too long. Yet, always, he would remember the blood. So too, would she. That singular need bound them together now.

  “Aldman,” the viscount directed his servant, “prepare a nightgown and some fresh rose water.” As he spoke, he kept his eyes focused on Victoria. One hand combed through her hair. All the while, her lips remained pressed to his wrist. Wanton. Desperate. So very charming, he thought. A most suitable bride.

  That same night, the rainfall grew into a ferocious storm – the likes of which hadn’t been seen in nine years – and tore the roof from the stable. The cook muttered prayers over a bowl of scalding soup. Perhaps most curious of all, every leaf on the apple tree Lord Grace had been leaning against shortly before Victoria rose – withered and died. Every apple fell, empty and darkened husks. Life for life. Death reborn came at a cost. The 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. 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. He found a certain charm in the way his blood dripped down her chin.

  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 pried his arm from the newly-made creature’s grasp. The astonishing strength of a newborn would never cease to amuse and amaze him. Her teeth had ripped the flesh on his arm up to the elbow. It would be a good hour or so before he was properly healed.

  “Now, now,” Lord Grace chided. Taking Victoria’s arm into his, he led through the gardens, “save some room for supper, love.” His pace was a leisurely one. Hers was more of a clumsy shamble. Her slippers were gone, and dirt caked around Victoria’s slender feet. Her body had no other option but to be led by him into the manor. Soon she would regain her senses, but it would take more blood. Lots of it.