I dreamt that night of another night five years ago – a summer night when the Revolution was still young and when the fall of the Bastille had driven its first dagger into the heart of the aristocracy...
"Pharaoh himself could not have looked upon the children of Israel as they escaped him across the Red Sea with more bitter longing than the Vicomte de Castellane as he looked upon me."
"My dreams were full of disordered visions – of guillotines, of crosses…and of gleaming, wolfish eyes in the forest, watching the passage of my carriage as I travelled ever deeper into darkness."
"You shall not become as we are unless you wish to. Only do not bereave us of your company so soon..."
"Upon every throat, I beheld the two red welts of the vampire’s kiss..."
“Were I enduring already the agonies of the damned and my very salvation depended upon it, I yet would not thirst for his blood..."
"I knew that it was useless to resist them but I did not wish to resist..."
"The clinging mist was as thick and impenetrable as it had been the day before and I sensed once again that stifling, sickly quality that it held..."
"The waters of the lapping moat that surrounded it were thick and black like those of a marsh and seemed to breed a foul mold that crept up the stones of the castle like the black, streaking prints of some taloned beast..."