The mob cheered as the Count’s severed head fell. Turning, they gazed on the figure in the negligee. Rough hands seized her, their dirty fingers sinking cruelly into alabaster skin.

“Here’s the bitch,” they yelled. “The whore what caused this.”

A hard slap across her pale cheek stopped her struggles as they dragged her away, blood running down her chin where her sharp fangs had pierced the lip.

At the town inn, they put on display. Cold eyed men lasciviously admiring her pert frame, colder eyed women threatening violence with their gaze.

“How dare she survive when Jon didn’t? She made a pact with the devil that one.”

Beating her, they left to to cry in the dark cellar. Summoning what little strength she had left, she began to crawl.

Slowly she reached the graveyard, collapsing against Jon’s tomb. As she wept, decayed hands reached from the stone door, gently leading her inside as desiccated lips sought hers. Eyes wide, she entered with the one whose love was strong enough to live on from the grave.