• Count Edward Bartholomew-Lennox was a paragon of what every man in London could wish upon a star for: he was blessed with exceptionally good looks, had inherited an immense wealth from his deceased parents, inhabited a prodigious manor that was an emulation of a miniature of the Versailles Palace, and was even fortuitous enough to marry a winsome girl who fawned over him. Yet, at twenty-two years of age, Count Edward’s satisfaction and thirst in life was not slaked; he wanted something more than his life as a “king” among the elegant high society of Victorian London, something more than the scintillating allure of riches and the smothering of the respect of so many people.
    At the zenith of London’s social hierarchy, Count Edward was prevalent among his affluent peers; his every action was thoroughly scrutinized, whether he was dining at an elegant restaurant, waltzing with this woman or that lovely maiden at a ball, dressed in a waistcoat of a passionate hue of red, or even if he was spotted strolling alone by a placid lake in a park on a lovely afternoon. If anything were to mar his mask of a seemly nobleman, his peers would eschew all ties with him; he might as well be a destitute and live in penury if that happened.
    Count Edward was a fetishist; he harbored sensual crazes for women who had white-blonde hair, willowy frames, and weren’t the conventional, orthodox, submissive types. From time to time, he would catch sights of such women, elegantly dressed in silk or satin, twirling ruffled parasols, or coyly fluttering fans. He would flirt a little, inciting gossip and rumors from his peers that he had mistresses or was conducting affairs and carrying out unfaithful acts behind his pretty little wife’s back.
    “Damn the fact I’m married to that girl!” he had bitterly muttered to himself several times before. “I was only betrothed to her for her social status and wealth! If I could give her to any other man, I’d gladly do so.” However, he couldn’t do so; a divorce would cause a scandal and he would become an object of derision—reputations were fragile, like a palace of cards: just one misplaced card, and the efforts and maintenance would tumble down into a menacing black hole.

    The sky was swamped with gray, dour clouds the day he and a few of his comrades paid a visit to a gallery. There was a new opening from a fledging artist making his (or was it her?) way into the profession of artists. The gallery was a rather small building in the city, but clean and painted in crisp white paint, with an elegant set of brick stairs leading into the gallery. The floor was made of marble that would tersely produced clicking-and-clacking sounds as visitors in the gallery stepped and wandered around to view collections of fine art.
    As Count Edward strolled by small crowds clustered by every work that stood out against the stark blankness of the walls, his sight grasped a sudden vision.
    There, alone, by one painting, stood a ravishing young woman. Though her back faced him, her very appearance promised a comely face. Her willowy frame stood tall and majestically, her waif-like figure flattered by a silk dress the exact shade of blush, patterned with miniscule white roses embellished with curling green leaves. Her skirt expanded in the shape of a bell with the aid of a crinoline, making her waist even more prominently thin. Her platinum-golden hair was twisted atop her head, exposing a long, swan-like neck encircled with a delicate gold chain.
    Count Edward extracted a small round mirror from the pocket of his black frock coat, scrutinizing his reflection. He approved of his masculine profile, the pointed chin, his wide spring-green eyes, and the smooth, unblemished skin that neatly stretched over his pleasing features. After tucking a stray lock of toasted-golden hair behind his right ear and returning the mirror to his pocket, he felt mollified by his handsome looks, which washed over with a sense of audaciousness. There’d be no doubt this woman would turn him down.
    Like a pretentious peacock, he swaggered over to the lone woman, just a p***k of intimidation fazing his courage, but not too much.
    “Hello there, Miss.”
    The young woman turned to face him; she was very tall, scarcely shorter than him, and she couldn’t be over twenty years of age. Her skin was porcelain-smooth and white as milk; a soft wash of pink hinted at the presence of blood gushing beneath that delicate skin of hers. Count Edward wagered her skin would be as soft as fresh rolls from the ovens of the bakery; she was very tempting to touch, and even kiss. Her heart-shaped face had a small, prettily upturned nose, full lips that looked stained with roses, and slender golden brows that eloquently curved over small, narrow eyes. He was amazed by her eyes: they were fringed by two rows of thin golden lashes; they weren’t merely blue, but were such a pale hue, the color looked washed, like drops of rainwater. Nonetheless, he thought they added to her beauty.
    She smiled prettily; her lips possessed a natural pout that conveyed the aesthetic of her youth.
    “Good day to you, sir.” Her eyes shimmered as she greeted Count Edward, as though her words had a magical quality to them.
    “What brings you here to the gallery on a…” He was about to say “lovely afternoon,” but the weather was rather dolorous.
    “…On a cool Saturday afternoon?” he finished. It was not a witty question; she’d probably claim she came to the gallery for the same reason as everybody else.
    The woman continued smiling; Count Edward couldn’t thoroughly digest how ravishingly ethereal she was, unlike his wife at home, who was petite, dark-haired, and an introvert who’d prefer to stuff her head in books and busy her hands with sewing rather than socialize at parties and elegantly flutter fans. This white-blonde woman seemed to offer everything Count Edward could ask for in a partner.
    “Look at this painting,” she purred, gesturing to the work she stood before.
    Count Edward obeyed, and his sight submitted to the painting. The colors, though lush, were dark, depicting a romantic moonlit garden prolific of rose bushes. A swing hung from a strong, graceful tree sprouting ornate leaves; the silver chains the swing hung from were entwined with foliage dotted with blood-red roses.
    Abruptly, a wind was relentlessly rushed through the gallery; it pulled Count Edward forward, yanking on his clothes, his hair, his whole body, on the contrary. The woman by him merely smiled; a few of her flaxen tresses had fallen loose and whipped over her comely face.
    The wind had rushed him into the painting; he crumpled upon a soft mass of emerald-colored grass, which felt as soft as a luxurious bed. He raised his head, unexpectedly discovering a small portal before him. Yes, a portal was shown through the congested rosebushes. Light shone through the hole, showing Count Edward the gallery he had been seemingly sucked straight out of. Surprisingly, everyone left in the gallery did not stir a din or display any anxiety. They went on scrutinizing artworks and making small talk with one another. Did they not feel a wind?
    A laugh emitted in the garden; it was a feminine, high, somewhat maniacal giggle. There was the woman, methodically fluctuating to and fro upon the swing like a pendulum. The pink dress had morphed into a body-clinging black dress of satin, and her hair fell in an endless sheet of star-white silk; the strands gently fluttered in the air like feathers as she swung. Here, in this dark garden, there seemed to be a white, enchanting glow around her as she entrancingly smiled at Count Edward, her eyes thin and seductive.
    There was a rustle in the bushes; leaves stretched over the portal, closing it up and repressing the light from the gallery. Count Edward frantically reached out, trying to stop the bushes from hindering his way back home. When his hand shot out, he only hit the leaves; the bushes had coalesced, blocking the portal.
    “Cheer up, Sir!” chirped the woman, giggling. “This is your chance!”
    My chance? Suddenly, Count Edward understood what she meant: he couldn’t garner any ideas of how she knew of his longings, but he didn’t care. He had finally met her, the woman he yearned for, the maiden of his dreams and deepest fantasies. Here, he needn’t fear the eagle-eyes of the public, the risk of losing his honor, and the propagation of gossip. If he really was no longer in London, trapped in a different world in another dimension, he needn’t be hassled by his marriage to his wife. He could feel free to love this new, mysterious woman.
    “Come here, Edward,” she purred.
    He realized he never told her his name; that didn’t matter. He believed she somehow found out all about him because she was deeply in love with him.
    The woman slinked off the swing, facing Count Edward. When he was close enough, she placed a hand behind his neck and him towards her. His breathing was hasty with furor; she was desperately pleased by how helplessly enraptured he was of her.
    “You love me, don’t you?” she charmingly whispered in his ear.
    “Yes. Yes, I do!” blurted Count Edward. “Ever since I saw you, I knew I’d do anything for you. I’ve waited for you all my life!”
    “Now, tell me, what is it about me that captured your heart?” The woman brushed Count Edward’s lips with her fingertips, her touch exquisitely docile; it made him burn with passion.
    “You’re beautiful!” exclaimed Count Edward. “You…You just enchant me! I’ve always dreamed of a woman who looked like you, and here you are! No woman in the world, the universe, the galaxy is as gorgeous as you!”
    “Anything else?” The woman slowly closed her eyes and opened them again. Her smile never faltered. “Don’t you want to learn more about me? Know who I am? Explore me?”
    “Yes! Yes, I shall explore you!”
    Count Edward fell atop the woman as they toppled onto the grass. Her body, though thin, was surprisingly strong. He tightly locked his lips with hers, and his hands flew everywhere on her, on her face, in her hair, her arms, her breast, and even crept beneath her dress to feel her thin, pale legs. The woman sat up and held Count Edward to herself. His frock coat was thrown off, and his shirt was unbuttoned more than halfway down, exposing a muscled, pale chest. As the two of them embraced, what Count Edward failed to notice was that the woman had bared her fangs. Long, ivory-white canines protruded from between her rosy lips. She lovingly stroked Count Edward’s elegant neck, so manly and muscled and temptingly beautiful; the skin was soft, pale, and sensual to the touch. She ran her pink tongue over her fangs, and could hear blood singing out to her. Now this was what she called true love...
    Count Edward screamed gruesomely; pain had saturated his neck, and hot liquid gushed from his neck as what felt like knives had stabbed into his skin. Abruptly, the woman jumped on top of him, pinning him to the ground, wrapping her long legs around him. She bit again, avariciously gulping down every mouthful of fresh crimson blood. Count Edward’s pitiful, deafening cries and violent flailing gradually died down, diminishing into silence; it was a silence haunted by what had just occurred.
    When Count Edward’s corpse was depleted of every drop of blood, the vampiress relinquished her grip on him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, though that only smeared more blood over her face.
    “Just another foolish man,” she growled in disbelief and disappointment rather than anger. “Men always disgust me. Give them a beautiful girl, and they’ll become dogs slaving away for the sake of a bone. I am not just a pretty face. I want to be known as a real person who lives and thinks. If my beauty was replaced with the exterior of an old crone, or someone plainer, would I be any more interesting?”
    She plucked a rose from a bush. Delicately holding it by its thorny stem with her blood-drenched hand, she gently stroked the velvet petals, lightly, like handling the most exquisitely delicate thing ever known to mankind.
    “He never even knew my name,” she whispered vehemently.
    She crushed the rose in her angry fist, destroying its intrinsic allure as it wilted within her hand, dropping a few forlorn, bloody petals that tragically drifted and waved to the ground.